Chapter Eighteen.Ned Davis, when he came down from aloft, had taken his post again near his beloved commander. “I am a good swimmer,” he said to himself, “and I will do my best to save the captain. If I fail I will perish with him.” Such were the thoughts which passed through his mind, as the most critical moment of all had arrived. Nearer and nearer the corvette drew towards the rocks. Now they appeared broad on the lee-bow—now they were right abeam—and at length many a bold seaman drew his breath more freely as they were seen over the quarter. The danger was passed. The beautiful little ship flew on, breasting bravely the foaming billows. At length she had clear room once more to make a tack. She came about before it might have been expected, crippled as she was, and now with her courses hauled up she stood out to sea.“Pipe below,” cried the captain, leaving the weather side of the poop, where he had stood since the ship had first got under weigh. “Keep her south-west, Mr Matson,” he observed, as he retired to his cabin; “and call me on deck should any change take place in the weather.”It would be difficult to describe the feelings of those on shore who had watched for so long the manoeuvres of the corvette as she worked her way out of the bay. Often Lady Nora lifted up her hands as if praying to Heaven for the safety of those on board. Each time, too the ship approached the dangerous reef, with the character of which she was so well acquainted, her cheek turned paler than usual, and her bated breath showed the agitation of her feelings.Yet, did she love the young commander of the corvette? She would scarcely have acknowledged thus much to herself. He had not declared his affection, and yet she felt almost sure that he was truly attached to her.“I must remember that he was poor Barry’s friend,” she said to herself; “yet Barry did not pretend to know to what family he belonged; indeed, he would never tell us how he first became acquainted with him. That was very strange, for as often as I put the question he evaded it, and replied, ‘I value him for himself, for the noble qualities he possesses, and not for what he may possibly have been.’ On board ship we think only of our rank in the service, and what sort of fellow a man shows himself to be by his conduct. So Nora do not say anything more about the matter.”At length, when the corvette, as far as she was able to judge in the thick gathering gloom of night, seemed to be clear of the land, Nora could not refrain from giving vent to her pent-up feelings in tears, while a prayer of thankfulness went up from her heart to Heaven.Some time passed before she entirely recovered from the effects of the fearful danger in which she had been placed. She looked forward, day after day, for the return of the corvette, but in vain. She eagerly examined the newspapers, but none of them mentioned theAriadne. She might still be on the coast of Ireland, or have been ordered elsewhere. From what Captain Denham had said before he took his departure, she was fully persuaded he would soon return; and it must be confessed, she longed to ask him many questions. There were various doubts passing through her mind which she was anxious to have solved. She scarcely, however, would trust herself to speak of them even to Sophy. She was soon to have her mind occupied with other cares.Her father, who had never recovered the loss of his son, or his visit to the West Indies, was now very evidently declining in health. He could no longer follow the hounds, or ride out as before. He took little or no interest in public affairs. Even his neighbours he declined seeing when they called, though he seemed always glad to have a visit from Mr Jamieson or his blind niece. He held frequent conversations with the steward about his affairs, which seemed greatly to trouble him. At length it was determined to send to Dublin to request the presence of his family lawyer, Mr Finlayson, who, though now an old man, was sufficiently hale to undertake the journey. He had, it appeared, as had his father before him, managed for many years the Kilfinnan property.Nora willingly agreed to write to request his attendance, for she felt, that as he was a faithful friend of her father’s, he would certainly be a comfort to him, and might also be able to suggest a means of placing the property in a more satisfactory state than it was in at present. She thought nothing of herself; it scarcely occurred to her that she was to become the heiress of it all. She knew that the title would become extinct at her father’s death, but that caused her no regret. She supposed that her income would enable her and her cousin Sophy to live as they had been accustomed. More she did not require.Within a week Mr Patrick Finlayson arrived in a chaise from Dublin. In those days the journey was not performed as rapidly as at present, and the dangers to be encountered were not a few. He was a small, neatly made, active little man, with a clear complexion, which even his advanced age had scarcely succeeded in depriving of the hue of youth, though his hair was white as snow. His eyes were bright and intelligent, and his whole manner and appearance showed that he was still capable of a considerable amount of active exertion. His brown suit, knee breeches, and silk stockings, were set off by brightly polished steel buttons and diamond buckles. Having paid his respects to the ladies of the family, and addressed Lady Nora in his usual easy, familiar style, which showed that he had from her earliest youth, claimed the honour of being one of her admirers and friends, he made more especial inquiries about the Earl.“You will see a great change in my father,” said Nora, “but your coming will, I feel sure, do him good. You know more about our affairs than we do. I only hope things are not worse than he supposes, and if they are, I must ask you to conceal the truth from him; I am afraid it would do him no good to make him aware of it, and would only deeply grieve him. I care not so much if I only am the sufferer.”“You need not be alarmed, my dear Lady Nora,” answered the old man, taking her hand. “Things are not worse than the Earl supposes; on the contrary, I have of late seen the importance of not allowing him to believe that they were improving as much as they have been. You know, probably, your good father’s disposition, and are aware, that had he discovered this, he would very quickly have launched out again into his old habits of extravagance, which, however, from the sad account you give of him, he is not now likely to do, and therefore I am prepared to tell him the whole truth. Your affairs, Lady Nora, require nursing, I will confess to that, and careful management, but a few years of economy will, I hope, place them on a satisfactory footing.”“This is indeed pleasant news you bring us, Mr Finlayson, I own when I heard that you had consented to come, that I feared things were rather worse than better, but I am indeed very grateful to you for coming; you have always been one of our truest friends, and I am sure at the present moment you will be a great comfort to my poor father. I will let the Earl know of your arrival, and I am sure he will be glad to see you at once. During the last few days he has grown very much weaker, and his medical attendant will not tell me what he thinks of his case. He himself speaks very willingly to our friend and neighbour, Mr Jamieson, who, when I ask him what he thinks, always looks very grave, and replies, ‘that the lives of all of us are in God’s hands, and that we should be prepared to lose those we love at any moment.’ This makes me, as you may suppose, extremely anxious.”While Lady Nora was speaking the old gentleman became very serious.“I should like to see the Earl as soon as possible,” he observed; “I have several matters of importance to consult him about, which I should not like to put off until he becomes still weaker than you tell me he is at present. You will excuse me, Lady Nora, when I say I should like to be alone with him for some time.”“O yes, sir,” said Lady Nora; “I know that whatever you have to say to my father you have the right to say to him; and I feel such perfect confidence in you that I have no desire to pry into any secrets you may have with him.”Nora having left the lawyer, soon returned with the information, that the Earl was ready to receive him.Mr Finlayson found the Earl sitting in an armchair, propped up with pillows, gazing out on the ocean, on whose blue and slightly ruffled waves the sunbeams were playing brilliantly. The Earl smiled as his old friend entered, and held out his hand warmly to him.“Sit down, Finlayson; you have come at a sad moment. I feel a strange weakness creeping over me, and I am glad that you have not longer put off your visit. Yes, I believe the moment is approaching for which we all should be prepared, when I must leave this world. I wish I could look back to all I have done during my life with satisfaction; but I cannot say that I can do that. I have been hospitable and generous, I own, according to the notion of people; but alas! Finlayson, for the peasantry under my charge, for the multitudes of my poorer neighbours, how little have I done? I might have set them a better example; I might have obtained some education for them; and, perhaps, by going among them, restrained them from committing the excesses into which, from time to time, they have plunged.”“Very true,” answered the lawyer; “I believe there are very few people who have not to say something like that, when they are about to leave the world; but we must not think of what we have done or left undone ourselves. You believe in the simple Gospel; I am sure you do, or you would have listened to Mr Jamieson’s preaching, as I have often seen you doing—in vain. We will speak of that by-and-by. I rather hope that you think worse of your case than you should do. I do not hear that the doctor is of the same opinion as you are, and so, my dear lord, there are certain points with regard to your property which I, as your legal adviser, would wish, in the first place, to discuss.”Mr Finlayson then entered into particulars, which it is not here necessary to introduce.The Earl seemed much relieved on hearing that his property was less encumbered than he had supposed.“But there is another point, my lord, on which I shall wish particularly to consult you.”“Well, the sooner we speak on anything of importance the better, Finlayson. We know not what another day may bring forth,” observed the Earl.He already spoke with some difficulty.“Well, my lord, at all events I should like to know your wishes on the subject,” said the lawyer. “Your lordship knows that your father had an elder brother.”“Yes,” said the Earl, in a somewhat surprised tone.“He was considerably older than your father,” continued the lawyer. “He was a somewhat wild and extravagant man. Your lordship may possibly remember that he engaged in one of the unhappy outbreaks of those days.”“Yes, yes,” said the Earl hastily. “I heard that he became a rebel against his king and country.”“Well, my lord, you know many honourable men joined with him on that occasion.”“I fancy that he was found guilty of high-treason, was he not?” said the Earl.“Yes,” answered the lawyer. “An act of attainder was passed against him, by which he lost both title and property. Had it not been for the interest of your father, it would have been lost to the family altogether; but, as he had always proved loyal, he was allowed to inherit the property in the place of his brother, for your grandfather, if you remember, was alive at the time.”“Yes; but of what consequence is that at the present day?” asked the Earl.“I am coming to that, my lord,” said Mr Finlayson. “Your uncle, it appeared, married and had a son and your father, who really loved his brother, being at that time a bachelor, petitioned the Government, that in case of his death without an heir, his elder brother’s guiltless child might succeed to the property, and regain the title of which his father had been deprived.”“Ah!” said the Earl, “I was not aware of that; but had this relative of mine (this cousin I suppose I should call him) a son?”“That for a long time was a matter of doubt,” said the lawyer. “It appeared, however, that he, when a young man, inherited many of his father’s qualities, and was in all respects fully as wild and unmanageable as he had been, and he very soon, in consequence, brought himself within power of the law.”“I hope he never committed any act unworthy of a gentleman or of his name and family,” said the Earl, with more animation than he had hitherto shown. “At least I trust one of the last scions of our race brought no disgrace on it.”“No, my lord,” said the lawyer, smiling; “he was only guilty of that gentlemanly act,—treason, having united himself with some of those unhappy people, who hoped to overthrow the authority of the Government. He became a United Irishman, and took part in the rebellion of that time. He was at length committed to prison, and to my great dismay I found that he had been condemned to death.”“Did he retain his own name, or had he assumed another?” asked the Earl.“He had some time before dropped his family name, and wisely too, considering the position in which he was placed,” answered the lawyer. “He had contrived, however, to make friends both within and outside the walls of the prison, and by their means he managed to escape. A price was of course set upon his head, and it was generally supposed that he had left the country. I thought so likewise for some time; but his father, who was then alive, had placed some sums of money in my hands, and empowered me to devote them to his assistance. I suppose he discovered this, for after a short time I received a letter from him, by which he led me to understand that he was still in the country, but in a position where it was not at all likely he would be discovered. He told me, moreover, that he had no intention of leaving Ireland; that he had lately married a young country girl, and was very happy in his present position. He praised his wife as a most beautiful creature, and said that in her society he hoped in future to remain quiet, and refrain from any of the acts which had hitherto brought him into trouble. He had taken so many precautions that, notwithstanding all my exertions, I could not find out where he was. Still he enabled me to remit the money he required. I should have told you that when your father had made the arrangement which I have been describing, he bound over his nephew and his son not to make any claim to the title, as long as an heir of his own line existed. But should he have no male heir, then the eldest of his descendants was allowed to put in a claim for the title. This document, and other legal proofs of his identity, your cousin had obtained possession of. He told me, I remember, in his letter, that he considered himself strictly bound to adhere to the agreement, and that as for himself, he had no wish ever to claim the title which had belonged to his ancestors; that he had sufficient to satisfy his wants; that he was tired of ambition; and that he was perfectly content to let his country go on in its present condition, without interfering in politics. I replied that his resolution was a wise one, and undertook whenever he desired to have the money forwarded to him, to send it immediately. I of course did my best to try and discover where he was and whom he had married. Once or twice I was very near succeeding. I traced him to two or three places, but at length I entirely lost all clue to him. I suspect he was aware I was endeavouring to discover him, and thus, as he had already had much practice in playing the game of hide-and-seek, he was able completely to evade me.”“That is a strange story you have told me,” said the Earl; “I had forgotten many of the circumstances to which you allude. Alas! as long as my own boy lived it was a matter of no consequence. I felt very sure that my own patent was secure, and that he would inherit my title and estates; but now it seems that through this curious arrangement of my father, matters have altered; but surely should an heir appear, he could not deprive my daughter of Kilfinnan Castle, and the estates which belong to it.”“In the unlikely event of a claimant establishing his right to the earldom, he would also inherit the Kilfinnan estates,” answered the lawyer; “but you will remember there are the estates in Derry, which were formerly separated from the Kilfinnan property, and according to the arrangements made by the late Earl, they become the heritage of the females should there be no son to succeed. Thus Lady Nora will at all events retain the Derry estates, even though it may turn out that your long-missing cousin has left a son to inherit the title and Kilfinnan property.”The Earl sighed deeply.“It matters very little to myself. My dear Nora has no ambition, and as her tastes are simple, she will be perfectly content with the Derry estates, where she will, I feel sure, devote herself to the care of the surrounding peasantry, and will avoid those extravagances which would injure her property, as alas! I have done.”The lawyer sat for some time longer with his friend, but the Earl at length, observing that he felt very faint, desired that his doctor, who was in the house, might be sent for. The man of medicine soon appeared, and feeling the Earl’s pulse instantly administered restoratives. In a short time the Earl rallied, and desired that Lady Nora and his niece might be sent for. They came and sat with him for nearly an hour, when he begged that they would retire to their rooms, assuring them that he felt much better, and that he hoped the following day he should have more conversation with Mr Finlayson on the matters of business which he wished to discuss with him.
Ned Davis, when he came down from aloft, had taken his post again near his beloved commander. “I am a good swimmer,” he said to himself, “and I will do my best to save the captain. If I fail I will perish with him.” Such were the thoughts which passed through his mind, as the most critical moment of all had arrived. Nearer and nearer the corvette drew towards the rocks. Now they appeared broad on the lee-bow—now they were right abeam—and at length many a bold seaman drew his breath more freely as they were seen over the quarter. The danger was passed. The beautiful little ship flew on, breasting bravely the foaming billows. At length she had clear room once more to make a tack. She came about before it might have been expected, crippled as she was, and now with her courses hauled up she stood out to sea.
“Pipe below,” cried the captain, leaving the weather side of the poop, where he had stood since the ship had first got under weigh. “Keep her south-west, Mr Matson,” he observed, as he retired to his cabin; “and call me on deck should any change take place in the weather.”
It would be difficult to describe the feelings of those on shore who had watched for so long the manoeuvres of the corvette as she worked her way out of the bay. Often Lady Nora lifted up her hands as if praying to Heaven for the safety of those on board. Each time, too the ship approached the dangerous reef, with the character of which she was so well acquainted, her cheek turned paler than usual, and her bated breath showed the agitation of her feelings.
Yet, did she love the young commander of the corvette? She would scarcely have acknowledged thus much to herself. He had not declared his affection, and yet she felt almost sure that he was truly attached to her.
“I must remember that he was poor Barry’s friend,” she said to herself; “yet Barry did not pretend to know to what family he belonged; indeed, he would never tell us how he first became acquainted with him. That was very strange, for as often as I put the question he evaded it, and replied, ‘I value him for himself, for the noble qualities he possesses, and not for what he may possibly have been.’ On board ship we think only of our rank in the service, and what sort of fellow a man shows himself to be by his conduct. So Nora do not say anything more about the matter.”
At length, when the corvette, as far as she was able to judge in the thick gathering gloom of night, seemed to be clear of the land, Nora could not refrain from giving vent to her pent-up feelings in tears, while a prayer of thankfulness went up from her heart to Heaven.
Some time passed before she entirely recovered from the effects of the fearful danger in which she had been placed. She looked forward, day after day, for the return of the corvette, but in vain. She eagerly examined the newspapers, but none of them mentioned theAriadne. She might still be on the coast of Ireland, or have been ordered elsewhere. From what Captain Denham had said before he took his departure, she was fully persuaded he would soon return; and it must be confessed, she longed to ask him many questions. There were various doubts passing through her mind which she was anxious to have solved. She scarcely, however, would trust herself to speak of them even to Sophy. She was soon to have her mind occupied with other cares.
Her father, who had never recovered the loss of his son, or his visit to the West Indies, was now very evidently declining in health. He could no longer follow the hounds, or ride out as before. He took little or no interest in public affairs. Even his neighbours he declined seeing when they called, though he seemed always glad to have a visit from Mr Jamieson or his blind niece. He held frequent conversations with the steward about his affairs, which seemed greatly to trouble him. At length it was determined to send to Dublin to request the presence of his family lawyer, Mr Finlayson, who, though now an old man, was sufficiently hale to undertake the journey. He had, it appeared, as had his father before him, managed for many years the Kilfinnan property.
Nora willingly agreed to write to request his attendance, for she felt, that as he was a faithful friend of her father’s, he would certainly be a comfort to him, and might also be able to suggest a means of placing the property in a more satisfactory state than it was in at present. She thought nothing of herself; it scarcely occurred to her that she was to become the heiress of it all. She knew that the title would become extinct at her father’s death, but that caused her no regret. She supposed that her income would enable her and her cousin Sophy to live as they had been accustomed. More she did not require.
Within a week Mr Patrick Finlayson arrived in a chaise from Dublin. In those days the journey was not performed as rapidly as at present, and the dangers to be encountered were not a few. He was a small, neatly made, active little man, with a clear complexion, which even his advanced age had scarcely succeeded in depriving of the hue of youth, though his hair was white as snow. His eyes were bright and intelligent, and his whole manner and appearance showed that he was still capable of a considerable amount of active exertion. His brown suit, knee breeches, and silk stockings, were set off by brightly polished steel buttons and diamond buckles. Having paid his respects to the ladies of the family, and addressed Lady Nora in his usual easy, familiar style, which showed that he had from her earliest youth, claimed the honour of being one of her admirers and friends, he made more especial inquiries about the Earl.
“You will see a great change in my father,” said Nora, “but your coming will, I feel sure, do him good. You know more about our affairs than we do. I only hope things are not worse than he supposes, and if they are, I must ask you to conceal the truth from him; I am afraid it would do him no good to make him aware of it, and would only deeply grieve him. I care not so much if I only am the sufferer.”
“You need not be alarmed, my dear Lady Nora,” answered the old man, taking her hand. “Things are not worse than the Earl supposes; on the contrary, I have of late seen the importance of not allowing him to believe that they were improving as much as they have been. You know, probably, your good father’s disposition, and are aware, that had he discovered this, he would very quickly have launched out again into his old habits of extravagance, which, however, from the sad account you give of him, he is not now likely to do, and therefore I am prepared to tell him the whole truth. Your affairs, Lady Nora, require nursing, I will confess to that, and careful management, but a few years of economy will, I hope, place them on a satisfactory footing.”
“This is indeed pleasant news you bring us, Mr Finlayson, I own when I heard that you had consented to come, that I feared things were rather worse than better, but I am indeed very grateful to you for coming; you have always been one of our truest friends, and I am sure at the present moment you will be a great comfort to my poor father. I will let the Earl know of your arrival, and I am sure he will be glad to see you at once. During the last few days he has grown very much weaker, and his medical attendant will not tell me what he thinks of his case. He himself speaks very willingly to our friend and neighbour, Mr Jamieson, who, when I ask him what he thinks, always looks very grave, and replies, ‘that the lives of all of us are in God’s hands, and that we should be prepared to lose those we love at any moment.’ This makes me, as you may suppose, extremely anxious.”
While Lady Nora was speaking the old gentleman became very serious.
“I should like to see the Earl as soon as possible,” he observed; “I have several matters of importance to consult him about, which I should not like to put off until he becomes still weaker than you tell me he is at present. You will excuse me, Lady Nora, when I say I should like to be alone with him for some time.”
“O yes, sir,” said Lady Nora; “I know that whatever you have to say to my father you have the right to say to him; and I feel such perfect confidence in you that I have no desire to pry into any secrets you may have with him.”
Nora having left the lawyer, soon returned with the information, that the Earl was ready to receive him.
Mr Finlayson found the Earl sitting in an armchair, propped up with pillows, gazing out on the ocean, on whose blue and slightly ruffled waves the sunbeams were playing brilliantly. The Earl smiled as his old friend entered, and held out his hand warmly to him.
“Sit down, Finlayson; you have come at a sad moment. I feel a strange weakness creeping over me, and I am glad that you have not longer put off your visit. Yes, I believe the moment is approaching for which we all should be prepared, when I must leave this world. I wish I could look back to all I have done during my life with satisfaction; but I cannot say that I can do that. I have been hospitable and generous, I own, according to the notion of people; but alas! Finlayson, for the peasantry under my charge, for the multitudes of my poorer neighbours, how little have I done? I might have set them a better example; I might have obtained some education for them; and, perhaps, by going among them, restrained them from committing the excesses into which, from time to time, they have plunged.”
“Very true,” answered the lawyer; “I believe there are very few people who have not to say something like that, when they are about to leave the world; but we must not think of what we have done or left undone ourselves. You believe in the simple Gospel; I am sure you do, or you would have listened to Mr Jamieson’s preaching, as I have often seen you doing—in vain. We will speak of that by-and-by. I rather hope that you think worse of your case than you should do. I do not hear that the doctor is of the same opinion as you are, and so, my dear lord, there are certain points with regard to your property which I, as your legal adviser, would wish, in the first place, to discuss.”
Mr Finlayson then entered into particulars, which it is not here necessary to introduce.
The Earl seemed much relieved on hearing that his property was less encumbered than he had supposed.
“But there is another point, my lord, on which I shall wish particularly to consult you.”
“Well, the sooner we speak on anything of importance the better, Finlayson. We know not what another day may bring forth,” observed the Earl.
He already spoke with some difficulty.
“Well, my lord, at all events I should like to know your wishes on the subject,” said the lawyer. “Your lordship knows that your father had an elder brother.”
“Yes,” said the Earl, in a somewhat surprised tone.
“He was considerably older than your father,” continued the lawyer. “He was a somewhat wild and extravagant man. Your lordship may possibly remember that he engaged in one of the unhappy outbreaks of those days.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Earl hastily. “I heard that he became a rebel against his king and country.”
“Well, my lord, you know many honourable men joined with him on that occasion.”
“I fancy that he was found guilty of high-treason, was he not?” said the Earl.
“Yes,” answered the lawyer. “An act of attainder was passed against him, by which he lost both title and property. Had it not been for the interest of your father, it would have been lost to the family altogether; but, as he had always proved loyal, he was allowed to inherit the property in the place of his brother, for your grandfather, if you remember, was alive at the time.”
“Yes; but of what consequence is that at the present day?” asked the Earl.
“I am coming to that, my lord,” said Mr Finlayson. “Your uncle, it appeared, married and had a son and your father, who really loved his brother, being at that time a bachelor, petitioned the Government, that in case of his death without an heir, his elder brother’s guiltless child might succeed to the property, and regain the title of which his father had been deprived.”
“Ah!” said the Earl, “I was not aware of that; but had this relative of mine (this cousin I suppose I should call him) a son?”
“That for a long time was a matter of doubt,” said the lawyer. “It appeared, however, that he, when a young man, inherited many of his father’s qualities, and was in all respects fully as wild and unmanageable as he had been, and he very soon, in consequence, brought himself within power of the law.”
“I hope he never committed any act unworthy of a gentleman or of his name and family,” said the Earl, with more animation than he had hitherto shown. “At least I trust one of the last scions of our race brought no disgrace on it.”
“No, my lord,” said the lawyer, smiling; “he was only guilty of that gentlemanly act,—treason, having united himself with some of those unhappy people, who hoped to overthrow the authority of the Government. He became a United Irishman, and took part in the rebellion of that time. He was at length committed to prison, and to my great dismay I found that he had been condemned to death.”
“Did he retain his own name, or had he assumed another?” asked the Earl.
“He had some time before dropped his family name, and wisely too, considering the position in which he was placed,” answered the lawyer. “He had contrived, however, to make friends both within and outside the walls of the prison, and by their means he managed to escape. A price was of course set upon his head, and it was generally supposed that he had left the country. I thought so likewise for some time; but his father, who was then alive, had placed some sums of money in my hands, and empowered me to devote them to his assistance. I suppose he discovered this, for after a short time I received a letter from him, by which he led me to understand that he was still in the country, but in a position where it was not at all likely he would be discovered. He told me, moreover, that he had no intention of leaving Ireland; that he had lately married a young country girl, and was very happy in his present position. He praised his wife as a most beautiful creature, and said that in her society he hoped in future to remain quiet, and refrain from any of the acts which had hitherto brought him into trouble. He had taken so many precautions that, notwithstanding all my exertions, I could not find out where he was. Still he enabled me to remit the money he required. I should have told you that when your father had made the arrangement which I have been describing, he bound over his nephew and his son not to make any claim to the title, as long as an heir of his own line existed. But should he have no male heir, then the eldest of his descendants was allowed to put in a claim for the title. This document, and other legal proofs of his identity, your cousin had obtained possession of. He told me, I remember, in his letter, that he considered himself strictly bound to adhere to the agreement, and that as for himself, he had no wish ever to claim the title which had belonged to his ancestors; that he had sufficient to satisfy his wants; that he was tired of ambition; and that he was perfectly content to let his country go on in its present condition, without interfering in politics. I replied that his resolution was a wise one, and undertook whenever he desired to have the money forwarded to him, to send it immediately. I of course did my best to try and discover where he was and whom he had married. Once or twice I was very near succeeding. I traced him to two or three places, but at length I entirely lost all clue to him. I suspect he was aware I was endeavouring to discover him, and thus, as he had already had much practice in playing the game of hide-and-seek, he was able completely to evade me.”
“That is a strange story you have told me,” said the Earl; “I had forgotten many of the circumstances to which you allude. Alas! as long as my own boy lived it was a matter of no consequence. I felt very sure that my own patent was secure, and that he would inherit my title and estates; but now it seems that through this curious arrangement of my father, matters have altered; but surely should an heir appear, he could not deprive my daughter of Kilfinnan Castle, and the estates which belong to it.”
“In the unlikely event of a claimant establishing his right to the earldom, he would also inherit the Kilfinnan estates,” answered the lawyer; “but you will remember there are the estates in Derry, which were formerly separated from the Kilfinnan property, and according to the arrangements made by the late Earl, they become the heritage of the females should there be no son to succeed. Thus Lady Nora will at all events retain the Derry estates, even though it may turn out that your long-missing cousin has left a son to inherit the title and Kilfinnan property.”
The Earl sighed deeply.
“It matters very little to myself. My dear Nora has no ambition, and as her tastes are simple, she will be perfectly content with the Derry estates, where she will, I feel sure, devote herself to the care of the surrounding peasantry, and will avoid those extravagances which would injure her property, as alas! I have done.”
The lawyer sat for some time longer with his friend, but the Earl at length, observing that he felt very faint, desired that his doctor, who was in the house, might be sent for. The man of medicine soon appeared, and feeling the Earl’s pulse instantly administered restoratives. In a short time the Earl rallied, and desired that Lady Nora and his niece might be sent for. They came and sat with him for nearly an hour, when he begged that they would retire to their rooms, assuring them that he felt much better, and that he hoped the following day he should have more conversation with Mr Finlayson on the matters of business which he wished to discuss with him.
Chapter Nineteen.Evening approached, and Nora and her cousin sat in the tower chamber overlooking the ocean. They neither of them felt disposed to go to sleep. The night was calm and lovely, the atmosphere unclouded. The stars shone forth brightly, and the light crescent moon was reflected in the waters below. The reef of rocks on the other side of the bay could be distinguished, and the lofty headlands beyond it stood out in bold relief against the sky, while to their extreme right they could see the whole sweep of the bay and the lofty downs above it. It is not surprising that they should have been unwilling to tear themselves away from such a scene. It calmed their agitated feelings, for Nora could not conceal from herself that one of the kindest of fathers was about to be taken from her, while Lady Sophy, almost friendless as she was, felt that she was about to lose her best protector. She could, it was true, live on with her cousin Nora, and watch over her, as she had ever done, like an elder sister over one far younger than herself. Already, Lady Sophy’s early beauty had completely departed. There was the same outline of feature, and the same elegant figure, but her countenance wore that sad expression (too often to be seen marking the features of the once young and lovely) of disappointed affection, of blighted hopes. Thus they sat on, hour after hour. A dark shadow passed across the moon, and threw a gloom over the hitherto bright landscape. Suddenly they were startled by a loud, wild shriek. It seemed to come from far away across the ocean. Now it swelled into a high note of wailing; now it sank into a mournful tone of grief. Again and again that strange sound struck their ears.“The banshee!” exclaimed Nora, placing her hand on Sophy’s shoulder with alarm. “Surely I have always believed that it was a mere superstition of the ignorant peasantry—a phantom of the imagination; but here is a dreadful reality. Yes, it surely must be the banshee, and what does it forebode? Sophy, you know too well, and so do I. Perhaps it is sent in mercy, to warn and prepare us for that dreadful event. But ought we not to have been prepared already? The last words my dear father spoke to me were sufficient to make me feel he was aware of the great change about to take place. Let us hasten to him. Perhaps even now his spirit is departing, and I would be at his side at that awful moment.”“Stay, Nora,” said Sophy; “I do not believe in the banshee, or any other being of the sort. I see no figure, and even did I, I should not be convinced that it was a being of another world. I know that many believe such things exist. Some think they are sent in kindness; others, that they are rather evil spirits permitted to disturb the parting hours of the dying; but that, at all events, I am sure is not the case. Let us watch a short time longer. Depend upon it, we are deceived in some way.”“Oh, no, no!” exclaimed Nora, pointing towards the nearest part of the beach which was visible. “See that phantom figure moving across the sands! Surely that must be the banshee! What else?”“No, dear Nora, calm yourself,” answered Sophy. “Do not you recognise the figure of poor mad Kathleen? She must have uttered those cries as she passed under the castle walls. She must have come to ask after the Earl, and, as bad news flies fast, she has probably been told he is sinking rapidly. So, as she has received many a kindness from the family, she is giving vent to her grief in those wild, unearthly screams and cries.”“You are right, Sophy,” answered Nora, “but, for the moment, I could not help believing in the existence of the wild phantom we have read of and heard so often about in our younger days from the surrounding cottagers. Yes, I see it is poor Kathleen. I trust my poor father has not heard it, for, in his weak state, it might have a bad effect upon his nerves. Yet he certainly does not believe in the existence of the banshee.”The poor girls had not long to watch before they were again summoned, and this time it was to stand by the dying bed of the Earl. Holding the hand of his daughter, which he gently pressed, he breathed his last, with scarcely a sigh, and evidently without any pain or suffering. Mr Jamieson, who had been summoned, stood by him. “He rests in peace,” he said; “he trusted in One all-powerful to save, though he made but little profession of his faith.”Poor Nora was led from the death-bed of her father to her own room, but it was long before she could find vent for her grief in tears. Her cousin Sophy had long ceased to weep. Those who have suffered great unhappiness, whose fondest affections have been blighted, as hers had been, often find it impossible again to gain relief by weeping. Such was her case. She mourned the loss of the Earl, as much as did her cousin, but it was in a different way. Not a tear dropped from her eye. She found no vent for all she felt. Nora, on the contrary, exhibited her grief far more violently, and thus, perhaps, the sooner regained tranquillity.Mr Finlayson, as he had promised the Earl, acted the part of a kind father to her. He treated her as a petted child, spoke words of comfort to her on all occasions, and tried by every means to raise her spirits. Often he succeeded in doing so, and she could not help expressing a wish that he could remain at the castle, instead of returning to Dublin.“Well, well,” he answered, “I will do my best to please you, my dear young lady. I have a son and grandson well able to attend to my business, and as long as I am not required at home, you shall have the benefit of my company.”In those days the burial of even a peasant was attended with much parade, and any family would have been thought mean unless the body of their deceased relative was properly waked. Although the corpse of a Protestant Earl had not to go through this ceremony, yet it would have been looked upon as a great disgrace to the family had not all the neighbours been invited from far and near to attend the funeral, and be sumptuously feasted. Had Nora been consulted she would gladly have avoided anything of the sort. Mr Finlayson declared, however, that it was not the day to break through their old customs, and, for the credit of the family, they must issue the usual invitations. Nora and Sophy, however, begged that they might be allowed to keep their rooms, although Nora had been anxious to attend her father to the grave. This it was arranged she should do in a private carriage. When the day arrived, however, from far and near came squires and squireens, and farmers and peasants, in all sorts of conveyances, the larger number being on horseback, while several friends of the deceased nobleman arrived from a distance to pay their last respects to his remains.It was a sad sight, even to Nora; but she resolved to go through with what she thought was required of her, and then she hoped to be allowed to remain at rest for many a long day. The parish church, in which the tomb of the family was situated, was about three miles off; and after the guests had been regaled at breakfast with wines of all sorts for the upper classes, and whisky, which flowed in profusion, for the lower, they mounted their horses, and entered their conveyances, to follow the hearse decorated with the usual trappings of mourning. Behind the hearse, in a mourning carriage, sat Nora and her cousin, closely veiled. Poor girls, how differently they felt to the mixed multitude who followed them. Their guests gave way to their usual habit of talking and laughing as they rode along. The events of the day were discussed. The good qualities of the late Earl; the prospects of his obtaining a son-in-law who might take his place and do the honours of the castle; the beauty of his fair daughter; and especially, the state of his finances. Few would have supposed that the lively and animated collection of men, who rode along in every variety of costume, were assembled there to pay the last honours to a deceased noble. They were silent, however, as they assembled round the grave. Some perhaps for the first time had then heard the burial service of the Protestant Church, as a large proportion of the guests were themselves Romanists; some perhaps were struck with what they heard; others probably attended to little that was said. Nora and her cousin stood close to the grave, closely veiled as before; and as Nora gazed for the last time upon the coffin of her beloved father, her heart sank within her, and she felt a longing to follow him to his quiet resting-place.Again they made for the castle, and all restraint now being removed, laughing and joking was the order of the day. Some even, as the wine flowed faster, gave way to snatches of songs, while the last meets were fully discussed, and the prospects of the next year’s harvest. It is scarcely necessary to describe the events which took place at the castle. A considerable number of the guests had no little difficulty in mounting their horses on their return home, from the generous liquor which they had imbibed out of the late Earl’s cellars. Their great grief seemed to be, that there was no heir to succeed him, and to assist in keeping up the neighbouring hunt. At length the castle was once more at rest.Mr Finlayson set earnestly to work to arrange the affairs of the young heiress. The steward, and those who were employed by him, had generally acted honestly; but as he made inquiries about the tenants, many were in arrear with rent, and he saw that some effort must be made to compel them to pay. He called the steward in for a consultation.“You give very good advice, Mr Finlayson; but I will just ask you, as a Scotchman said, ‘Who is to bell the cat?’ You know, surely, that to attempt to distrain for rent on some of these gentlemen would assuredly bring a bullet through your brain or mine. It is not an easy matter to get money out of an Irishman when he is determined not to pay, and it is not for you or me, if we are wise men, to push the matter too hard. I will do my best and go among them, and put it to them, whether they would like to deprive the young heiress of her property. Perhaps, though they will not yield to force, they may to persuasion, and I am thankful to say, we still retain in old Ireland, the gift of blarney. You see, sir, we shall get much more out of them in that way. I will just ask them if they would like to attack a young lady and rifle her pockets. Put it thus to them, and show them that if they keep back the money they are doing the same thing. Now, we shall see, if I go on this plan, whether those who can pay will pay, while those who cannot pay, it is very evident, will not do so; but to my mind, there is no use turning a man adrift in the world if you can help it. A better day may come, and then he may prove a good tenant. If you turn him out of one property he will just build a hut in another corner of the land, and you will have him there starving before your eyes, and you will not be the better for the move.”“Well, well, O’Connor, you are a wise man, I see. I will let you have your way in that respect. We will do nothing to create an ill-feeling against the dear young mistress, and it is for you and I who are engaged to serve her to look after her interests. I wish she had a good husband to help her; but it is my belief, from what I see here, that there is not a young man in the country at all fit for her. She is a good, gentle creature, and were she to wed one of the rollicking, harum-scarum young fellows who are her equals, he would break her heart; and staying at home as she does, she is not likely to meet any others, while even abroad she saw no one to care for, or, at least, no one appeared, so perhaps she will continue to live a maiden life, and if so, she will require your assistance and mine as long as I remain in the world.”Nora and Sophy were relieved from much anxiety by the continued residence of the kind Mr Finlayson at the castle. He was so lively, so full of conversation and anecdotes, so kind and judicious at the same time. He raised their spirits more than any one else could have done. A young man would have been out of place. Even kind, gentle Miss O’Reilly, when she came over, though she talked very pleasantly, could do little to animate them. Mr Jamieson performed his part as well as he could, but he was not very animated; he was more inclined to speak in a serious than lively strain.
Evening approached, and Nora and her cousin sat in the tower chamber overlooking the ocean. They neither of them felt disposed to go to sleep. The night was calm and lovely, the atmosphere unclouded. The stars shone forth brightly, and the light crescent moon was reflected in the waters below. The reef of rocks on the other side of the bay could be distinguished, and the lofty headlands beyond it stood out in bold relief against the sky, while to their extreme right they could see the whole sweep of the bay and the lofty downs above it. It is not surprising that they should have been unwilling to tear themselves away from such a scene. It calmed their agitated feelings, for Nora could not conceal from herself that one of the kindest of fathers was about to be taken from her, while Lady Sophy, almost friendless as she was, felt that she was about to lose her best protector. She could, it was true, live on with her cousin Nora, and watch over her, as she had ever done, like an elder sister over one far younger than herself. Already, Lady Sophy’s early beauty had completely departed. There was the same outline of feature, and the same elegant figure, but her countenance wore that sad expression (too often to be seen marking the features of the once young and lovely) of disappointed affection, of blighted hopes. Thus they sat on, hour after hour. A dark shadow passed across the moon, and threw a gloom over the hitherto bright landscape. Suddenly they were startled by a loud, wild shriek. It seemed to come from far away across the ocean. Now it swelled into a high note of wailing; now it sank into a mournful tone of grief. Again and again that strange sound struck their ears.
“The banshee!” exclaimed Nora, placing her hand on Sophy’s shoulder with alarm. “Surely I have always believed that it was a mere superstition of the ignorant peasantry—a phantom of the imagination; but here is a dreadful reality. Yes, it surely must be the banshee, and what does it forebode? Sophy, you know too well, and so do I. Perhaps it is sent in mercy, to warn and prepare us for that dreadful event. But ought we not to have been prepared already? The last words my dear father spoke to me were sufficient to make me feel he was aware of the great change about to take place. Let us hasten to him. Perhaps even now his spirit is departing, and I would be at his side at that awful moment.”
“Stay, Nora,” said Sophy; “I do not believe in the banshee, or any other being of the sort. I see no figure, and even did I, I should not be convinced that it was a being of another world. I know that many believe such things exist. Some think they are sent in kindness; others, that they are rather evil spirits permitted to disturb the parting hours of the dying; but that, at all events, I am sure is not the case. Let us watch a short time longer. Depend upon it, we are deceived in some way.”
“Oh, no, no!” exclaimed Nora, pointing towards the nearest part of the beach which was visible. “See that phantom figure moving across the sands! Surely that must be the banshee! What else?”
“No, dear Nora, calm yourself,” answered Sophy. “Do not you recognise the figure of poor mad Kathleen? She must have uttered those cries as she passed under the castle walls. She must have come to ask after the Earl, and, as bad news flies fast, she has probably been told he is sinking rapidly. So, as she has received many a kindness from the family, she is giving vent to her grief in those wild, unearthly screams and cries.”
“You are right, Sophy,” answered Nora, “but, for the moment, I could not help believing in the existence of the wild phantom we have read of and heard so often about in our younger days from the surrounding cottagers. Yes, I see it is poor Kathleen. I trust my poor father has not heard it, for, in his weak state, it might have a bad effect upon his nerves. Yet he certainly does not believe in the existence of the banshee.”
The poor girls had not long to watch before they were again summoned, and this time it was to stand by the dying bed of the Earl. Holding the hand of his daughter, which he gently pressed, he breathed his last, with scarcely a sigh, and evidently without any pain or suffering. Mr Jamieson, who had been summoned, stood by him. “He rests in peace,” he said; “he trusted in One all-powerful to save, though he made but little profession of his faith.”
Poor Nora was led from the death-bed of her father to her own room, but it was long before she could find vent for her grief in tears. Her cousin Sophy had long ceased to weep. Those who have suffered great unhappiness, whose fondest affections have been blighted, as hers had been, often find it impossible again to gain relief by weeping. Such was her case. She mourned the loss of the Earl, as much as did her cousin, but it was in a different way. Not a tear dropped from her eye. She found no vent for all she felt. Nora, on the contrary, exhibited her grief far more violently, and thus, perhaps, the sooner regained tranquillity.
Mr Finlayson, as he had promised the Earl, acted the part of a kind father to her. He treated her as a petted child, spoke words of comfort to her on all occasions, and tried by every means to raise her spirits. Often he succeeded in doing so, and she could not help expressing a wish that he could remain at the castle, instead of returning to Dublin.
“Well, well,” he answered, “I will do my best to please you, my dear young lady. I have a son and grandson well able to attend to my business, and as long as I am not required at home, you shall have the benefit of my company.”
In those days the burial of even a peasant was attended with much parade, and any family would have been thought mean unless the body of their deceased relative was properly waked. Although the corpse of a Protestant Earl had not to go through this ceremony, yet it would have been looked upon as a great disgrace to the family had not all the neighbours been invited from far and near to attend the funeral, and be sumptuously feasted. Had Nora been consulted she would gladly have avoided anything of the sort. Mr Finlayson declared, however, that it was not the day to break through their old customs, and, for the credit of the family, they must issue the usual invitations. Nora and Sophy, however, begged that they might be allowed to keep their rooms, although Nora had been anxious to attend her father to the grave. This it was arranged she should do in a private carriage. When the day arrived, however, from far and near came squires and squireens, and farmers and peasants, in all sorts of conveyances, the larger number being on horseback, while several friends of the deceased nobleman arrived from a distance to pay their last respects to his remains.
It was a sad sight, even to Nora; but she resolved to go through with what she thought was required of her, and then she hoped to be allowed to remain at rest for many a long day. The parish church, in which the tomb of the family was situated, was about three miles off; and after the guests had been regaled at breakfast with wines of all sorts for the upper classes, and whisky, which flowed in profusion, for the lower, they mounted their horses, and entered their conveyances, to follow the hearse decorated with the usual trappings of mourning. Behind the hearse, in a mourning carriage, sat Nora and her cousin, closely veiled. Poor girls, how differently they felt to the mixed multitude who followed them. Their guests gave way to their usual habit of talking and laughing as they rode along. The events of the day were discussed. The good qualities of the late Earl; the prospects of his obtaining a son-in-law who might take his place and do the honours of the castle; the beauty of his fair daughter; and especially, the state of his finances. Few would have supposed that the lively and animated collection of men, who rode along in every variety of costume, were assembled there to pay the last honours to a deceased noble. They were silent, however, as they assembled round the grave. Some perhaps for the first time had then heard the burial service of the Protestant Church, as a large proportion of the guests were themselves Romanists; some perhaps were struck with what they heard; others probably attended to little that was said. Nora and her cousin stood close to the grave, closely veiled as before; and as Nora gazed for the last time upon the coffin of her beloved father, her heart sank within her, and she felt a longing to follow him to his quiet resting-place.
Again they made for the castle, and all restraint now being removed, laughing and joking was the order of the day. Some even, as the wine flowed faster, gave way to snatches of songs, while the last meets were fully discussed, and the prospects of the next year’s harvest. It is scarcely necessary to describe the events which took place at the castle. A considerable number of the guests had no little difficulty in mounting their horses on their return home, from the generous liquor which they had imbibed out of the late Earl’s cellars. Their great grief seemed to be, that there was no heir to succeed him, and to assist in keeping up the neighbouring hunt. At length the castle was once more at rest.
Mr Finlayson set earnestly to work to arrange the affairs of the young heiress. The steward, and those who were employed by him, had generally acted honestly; but as he made inquiries about the tenants, many were in arrear with rent, and he saw that some effort must be made to compel them to pay. He called the steward in for a consultation.
“You give very good advice, Mr Finlayson; but I will just ask you, as a Scotchman said, ‘Who is to bell the cat?’ You know, surely, that to attempt to distrain for rent on some of these gentlemen would assuredly bring a bullet through your brain or mine. It is not an easy matter to get money out of an Irishman when he is determined not to pay, and it is not for you or me, if we are wise men, to push the matter too hard. I will do my best and go among them, and put it to them, whether they would like to deprive the young heiress of her property. Perhaps, though they will not yield to force, they may to persuasion, and I am thankful to say, we still retain in old Ireland, the gift of blarney. You see, sir, we shall get much more out of them in that way. I will just ask them if they would like to attack a young lady and rifle her pockets. Put it thus to them, and show them that if they keep back the money they are doing the same thing. Now, we shall see, if I go on this plan, whether those who can pay will pay, while those who cannot pay, it is very evident, will not do so; but to my mind, there is no use turning a man adrift in the world if you can help it. A better day may come, and then he may prove a good tenant. If you turn him out of one property he will just build a hut in another corner of the land, and you will have him there starving before your eyes, and you will not be the better for the move.”
“Well, well, O’Connor, you are a wise man, I see. I will let you have your way in that respect. We will do nothing to create an ill-feeling against the dear young mistress, and it is for you and I who are engaged to serve her to look after her interests. I wish she had a good husband to help her; but it is my belief, from what I see here, that there is not a young man in the country at all fit for her. She is a good, gentle creature, and were she to wed one of the rollicking, harum-scarum young fellows who are her equals, he would break her heart; and staying at home as she does, she is not likely to meet any others, while even abroad she saw no one to care for, or, at least, no one appeared, so perhaps she will continue to live a maiden life, and if so, she will require your assistance and mine as long as I remain in the world.”
Nora and Sophy were relieved from much anxiety by the continued residence of the kind Mr Finlayson at the castle. He was so lively, so full of conversation and anecdotes, so kind and judicious at the same time. He raised their spirits more than any one else could have done. A young man would have been out of place. Even kind, gentle Miss O’Reilly, when she came over, though she talked very pleasantly, could do little to animate them. Mr Jamieson performed his part as well as he could, but he was not very animated; he was more inclined to speak in a serious than lively strain.
Chapter Twenty.Happily human beings are so constituted, that grief with few, especially with the young, lasts long. After a time, Lady Nora and her cousin recovered their usual spirits, and began to ride about the country as before. Their chief pleasure was to visit those they had long known, and to extend their search of others who might require relief. The surest means for those who are themselves in distress of obtaining comfort is to do good to their fellow-creatures. Several times they paid a visit to the old fishwife, Widow O’Neil. She seemed to have grown more hardy and wiry than ever. It was wonderful what exertions she could go through. She often had the assistance of her brother Shane, who was, however, advancing in life, and not so active as before, while she appeared to have retained all her strength and activity. They remarked, whenever they paid her a visit, the delight she took in speaking of her long-lost son. She never failed to tell them that she had seen him in her dreams. She knew, she declared, that he was thinking of her, and though she could not say why he was detained, he was, she felt certain, endeavouring to come back to her. Sometimes she thought he was a slave in some foreign land; sometimes that he had been cast away on some desert island, and had to live there, unable to make his escape, and sometimes that he was in prison. She said she knew he was in far distant lands, as that alone would have kept him from her. They could not help being struck by the deep, the intense love and confidence in him which the old woman always expressed for her son, though they naturally had considerable doubts whether, if he really was alive, he could feel the same for her.“He was a handsome youth,” observed Lady Sophy to her cousin, “but there was a wild, daring look in his eye, and he was a lad who, when once away, and having obtained a better position in life than that which he enjoyed in his early days, would very likely cast off all thoughts of his poor mother, and would have no wish to return to her humble cottage.”“Oh, no, no,” said Lady Nora, “I could not think that of him; of course I do not recollect him clearly, except from the sketch you made of him, but yet I am sure from the expression of his countenance that he must have been as true and honest as he was handsome. No, I would rather suppose that he has long since been killed. Just consider how many thousands of seamen have lost their lives within the last few years in the numberless battles in which our country has been engaged, and how likely it is that he was among them, and that is why no one has received any tidings of him.”Such was the conversation which took place as they climbed up the hill to return to their horses. They had promised Widow O’Neil to visit her again in a day or two. She had undertaken to supply them with shells which her brother Shane had collected, and which they wished to send to a friend at a distance. When, however, the day arrived on which they were to pay their visit, the morning broke with a storm of rain and wind. The dark clouds chased each other over the sky, and the wind whistled round the towers of the castle.“It will be impossible for us to ride to Widow O’Neil’s to-day,” observed Sophy when they met at breakfast. “I do not think Mr Finlayson will promise to accompany us; he would not like to face the bad weather.”“Perhaps the rain will clear off, and then he will not mind the wind any more than we shall,” observed Sophy.Mr Finlayson, who then entered the room, declared that should the weather clear, he was ready to mount the little cob which had been appropriated for his use, which was so steady, that occasionally the Earl had gone out shooting on its back, and so sure-footed, it had never been known to stumble.“But, my dear Lady Nora, you must be more careful than you were once on a time, on a skittish young horse which nearly proved your death,” observed the old lawyer. “A day like this tries an animal; and unless your steed is as steady as a rock I cannot sanction your going out.”“Oh, I will take care to ride one of the best behaved of our stud,” answered Nora, “and Sophy shall have the next, as she is somewhat the better horsewoman. I am anxious to send off those beautiful shells to Miss Fitz-Patrick, as she particularly begged to have them, and we may not have another opportunity of doing so for some time.”It was thus arranged that the horses should be ordered in the forenoon, should the weather clear sufficiently, and that they would pay their visit to Widow O’Neil. In a short time the rain ceased falling, although the wind continued blowing as hard as ever; indeed, it was a complete summer gale. The clouds rushed rapidly along the sky, and the seas rolled in with all their force from across the wide Atlantic. It wanted an hour or more to the time they had agreed to set out, and the two ladies retired to their turret boudoir. Scarcely had they entered the room, when Lady Nora exclaimed that she saw a vessel in the north-west, at no great distance from the land. The glass was turned in the direction towards which she pointed.“She is a large ship,” she observed, “but she seems to me to have lost most of her masts, there is but one standing; yes, I am sure of that, all the the rest are gone. With this fierce gale blowing on the shore, what a dangerous position she is in! I cannot make out what ship she is. Do you look, Sophy; what do you say to it?”Sophy looked through the glass.“I cannot make out to a certainty, but from her appearance, I should judge her to be a man-of-war. Yes, I am nearly sure of it; I should say that she is a frigate, for when I keep the telescope steady, I can almost count her ports.”Nora looked through the glass.“Yes, you are right,” she said; “she seems to be standing to the south, but she is evidently drifting fast towards the land. I see, though, she has got some after-sail set on the stump of the mizenmast, and I think I understand it; she wishes to weather the reef, and of course after that take shelter in the bay. Yes, yes, that is clearly her object; she is struggling bravely with the seas, but oh, in what fearful peril she is placed.”The ladies immediately ordered their horses round, proposing to watch the progress of the ship from the cliffs.“I daresay that Mr Finlayson will not object to come with us at once,” said Lady Sophy, and she left the room in search of him.“Willingly, my dear young lady,” he answered; “you will find that I am no despicable cavalier when once I am in the saddle.”The party were soon mounted and cantering across the downs in the direction of the struggling ship. Mr Finlayson was much less acquainted with nautical affairs than were his fair companions, still he knew enough to be aware that the ship was in great danger. The wind prevented them from making rapid progress along the downs, although they urged on their steeds as fast as they could go, anxious to meet some one who could give them further information about the ship. They determined to go on till they reached the widow’s hut, as they knew that, should her brother be there, as he had promised to be, they would learn more from him than from anybody else as to the probability of the ship escaping destruction on the dangerous reef towards which she appeared to be drawing. Still they hoped against hope, that she might struggle on and escape.As they approached the end of the cliff above Widow O’Neil’s cottage, they recognised her standing on a high projecting point of land, gazing towards the ship. Her actions gave them the idea that she, like poor Kathleen, had lost her senses. Wildly she waved her arm, sometimes clasping her hands, raising them towards heaven; then, again, she stretched them over the ocean. As the ladies and Mr Finlayson rode up to her, words of prayer were escaping from her lips.“What is the matter, Mistress O’Neil?” asked Sophy, riding up to her. “Why are you thus agitated this morning?”“It is on account of a dream I had last night,” she answered. “That is no wonder, though, for every night as I lie on my bed I dream that my boy is coming back to me, though when I am about to clasp him to my heart he escapes away again; but last night I dreamed that he really had come back, and there he was lying in my arms, just as he was when an infant and smiling in my face. He must come back soon, too, for I am getting old, very old, and oh, he will scarcely know me now! There is not much time to lose; but he will come; yes, my lady, I know that he will come. He will not be as young, and beautiful, and strong, and happy as he was when he went away, so many, many years ago,—I know not how many; I have lost all count of them. Oh, they have been years of grief and mourning to me—sad, sad years; but such have been the years of my life since one I loved was taken from me. Ah, if you had known him, ladies, you would have said I had reason to love him: and now, my boy, my only boy, to have been thus long kept from me! But he is coming back, ladies. I tell you, I dreamed last night that he was coming back; and suppose he was to be on board yonder ship! Ah, but I feel sure that he cannot be, for she will strike on yonder dark reef, and soon be a shattered wreck, to which no human being could cling and live. See how fiercely the seas roll in, and dash furiously over it! See, see how the brave frigate is drifting faster and faster towards the land! When I first saw her this morning she was a good two leagues away, and now there is not a quarter of a league between her and that rocky point. If once she strikes upon it, few of her sturdy crew will ever come ashore alive. Few, do I say? none, none can live amid those breakers. Oh, Heaven protect them!”In spite of the strong gale which blew round them, neither the ladies nor Mr Finlayson could tear themselves from the spot where they stood, it being the best situation they could reach for watching the progress of the labouring frigate.
Happily human beings are so constituted, that grief with few, especially with the young, lasts long. After a time, Lady Nora and her cousin recovered their usual spirits, and began to ride about the country as before. Their chief pleasure was to visit those they had long known, and to extend their search of others who might require relief. The surest means for those who are themselves in distress of obtaining comfort is to do good to their fellow-creatures. Several times they paid a visit to the old fishwife, Widow O’Neil. She seemed to have grown more hardy and wiry than ever. It was wonderful what exertions she could go through. She often had the assistance of her brother Shane, who was, however, advancing in life, and not so active as before, while she appeared to have retained all her strength and activity. They remarked, whenever they paid her a visit, the delight she took in speaking of her long-lost son. She never failed to tell them that she had seen him in her dreams. She knew, she declared, that he was thinking of her, and though she could not say why he was detained, he was, she felt certain, endeavouring to come back to her. Sometimes she thought he was a slave in some foreign land; sometimes that he had been cast away on some desert island, and had to live there, unable to make his escape, and sometimes that he was in prison. She said she knew he was in far distant lands, as that alone would have kept him from her. They could not help being struck by the deep, the intense love and confidence in him which the old woman always expressed for her son, though they naturally had considerable doubts whether, if he really was alive, he could feel the same for her.
“He was a handsome youth,” observed Lady Sophy to her cousin, “but there was a wild, daring look in his eye, and he was a lad who, when once away, and having obtained a better position in life than that which he enjoyed in his early days, would very likely cast off all thoughts of his poor mother, and would have no wish to return to her humble cottage.”
“Oh, no, no,” said Lady Nora, “I could not think that of him; of course I do not recollect him clearly, except from the sketch you made of him, but yet I am sure from the expression of his countenance that he must have been as true and honest as he was handsome. No, I would rather suppose that he has long since been killed. Just consider how many thousands of seamen have lost their lives within the last few years in the numberless battles in which our country has been engaged, and how likely it is that he was among them, and that is why no one has received any tidings of him.”
Such was the conversation which took place as they climbed up the hill to return to their horses. They had promised Widow O’Neil to visit her again in a day or two. She had undertaken to supply them with shells which her brother Shane had collected, and which they wished to send to a friend at a distance. When, however, the day arrived on which they were to pay their visit, the morning broke with a storm of rain and wind. The dark clouds chased each other over the sky, and the wind whistled round the towers of the castle.
“It will be impossible for us to ride to Widow O’Neil’s to-day,” observed Sophy when they met at breakfast. “I do not think Mr Finlayson will promise to accompany us; he would not like to face the bad weather.”
“Perhaps the rain will clear off, and then he will not mind the wind any more than we shall,” observed Sophy.
Mr Finlayson, who then entered the room, declared that should the weather clear, he was ready to mount the little cob which had been appropriated for his use, which was so steady, that occasionally the Earl had gone out shooting on its back, and so sure-footed, it had never been known to stumble.
“But, my dear Lady Nora, you must be more careful than you were once on a time, on a skittish young horse which nearly proved your death,” observed the old lawyer. “A day like this tries an animal; and unless your steed is as steady as a rock I cannot sanction your going out.”
“Oh, I will take care to ride one of the best behaved of our stud,” answered Nora, “and Sophy shall have the next, as she is somewhat the better horsewoman. I am anxious to send off those beautiful shells to Miss Fitz-Patrick, as she particularly begged to have them, and we may not have another opportunity of doing so for some time.”
It was thus arranged that the horses should be ordered in the forenoon, should the weather clear sufficiently, and that they would pay their visit to Widow O’Neil. In a short time the rain ceased falling, although the wind continued blowing as hard as ever; indeed, it was a complete summer gale. The clouds rushed rapidly along the sky, and the seas rolled in with all their force from across the wide Atlantic. It wanted an hour or more to the time they had agreed to set out, and the two ladies retired to their turret boudoir. Scarcely had they entered the room, when Lady Nora exclaimed that she saw a vessel in the north-west, at no great distance from the land. The glass was turned in the direction towards which she pointed.
“She is a large ship,” she observed, “but she seems to me to have lost most of her masts, there is but one standing; yes, I am sure of that, all the the rest are gone. With this fierce gale blowing on the shore, what a dangerous position she is in! I cannot make out what ship she is. Do you look, Sophy; what do you say to it?”
Sophy looked through the glass.
“I cannot make out to a certainty, but from her appearance, I should judge her to be a man-of-war. Yes, I am nearly sure of it; I should say that she is a frigate, for when I keep the telescope steady, I can almost count her ports.”
Nora looked through the glass.
“Yes, you are right,” she said; “she seems to be standing to the south, but she is evidently drifting fast towards the land. I see, though, she has got some after-sail set on the stump of the mizenmast, and I think I understand it; she wishes to weather the reef, and of course after that take shelter in the bay. Yes, yes, that is clearly her object; she is struggling bravely with the seas, but oh, in what fearful peril she is placed.”
The ladies immediately ordered their horses round, proposing to watch the progress of the ship from the cliffs.
“I daresay that Mr Finlayson will not object to come with us at once,” said Lady Sophy, and she left the room in search of him.
“Willingly, my dear young lady,” he answered; “you will find that I am no despicable cavalier when once I am in the saddle.”
The party were soon mounted and cantering across the downs in the direction of the struggling ship. Mr Finlayson was much less acquainted with nautical affairs than were his fair companions, still he knew enough to be aware that the ship was in great danger. The wind prevented them from making rapid progress along the downs, although they urged on their steeds as fast as they could go, anxious to meet some one who could give them further information about the ship. They determined to go on till they reached the widow’s hut, as they knew that, should her brother be there, as he had promised to be, they would learn more from him than from anybody else as to the probability of the ship escaping destruction on the dangerous reef towards which she appeared to be drawing. Still they hoped against hope, that she might struggle on and escape.
As they approached the end of the cliff above Widow O’Neil’s cottage, they recognised her standing on a high projecting point of land, gazing towards the ship. Her actions gave them the idea that she, like poor Kathleen, had lost her senses. Wildly she waved her arm, sometimes clasping her hands, raising them towards heaven; then, again, she stretched them over the ocean. As the ladies and Mr Finlayson rode up to her, words of prayer were escaping from her lips.
“What is the matter, Mistress O’Neil?” asked Sophy, riding up to her. “Why are you thus agitated this morning?”
“It is on account of a dream I had last night,” she answered. “That is no wonder, though, for every night as I lie on my bed I dream that my boy is coming back to me, though when I am about to clasp him to my heart he escapes away again; but last night I dreamed that he really had come back, and there he was lying in my arms, just as he was when an infant and smiling in my face. He must come back soon, too, for I am getting old, very old, and oh, he will scarcely know me now! There is not much time to lose; but he will come; yes, my lady, I know that he will come. He will not be as young, and beautiful, and strong, and happy as he was when he went away, so many, many years ago,—I know not how many; I have lost all count of them. Oh, they have been years of grief and mourning to me—sad, sad years; but such have been the years of my life since one I loved was taken from me. Ah, if you had known him, ladies, you would have said I had reason to love him: and now, my boy, my only boy, to have been thus long kept from me! But he is coming back, ladies. I tell you, I dreamed last night that he was coming back; and suppose he was to be on board yonder ship! Ah, but I feel sure that he cannot be, for she will strike on yonder dark reef, and soon be a shattered wreck, to which no human being could cling and live. See how fiercely the seas roll in, and dash furiously over it! See, see how the brave frigate is drifting faster and faster towards the land! When I first saw her this morning she was a good two leagues away, and now there is not a quarter of a league between her and that rocky point. If once she strikes upon it, few of her sturdy crew will ever come ashore alive. Few, do I say? none, none can live amid those breakers. Oh, Heaven protect them!”
In spite of the strong gale which blew round them, neither the ladies nor Mr Finlayson could tear themselves from the spot where they stood, it being the best situation they could reach for watching the progress of the labouring frigate.
Chapter Twenty One.We must for a time follow the fortunes of Charles Denham. Those were days of rapid promotion, when an officer’s name stood well at the Admiralty. The young commander had not long served his time on board the corvette before he received his post rank. Scarcely twelve years had passed since he first stepped on board a man-of-war as a young seaman before the mast, when he found himself in command of a fine frigate of thirty-six guns—theIsabel. Ned Davis, who had followed him into every ship in which he served, now, by his advice, having applied for a warrant, was appointed boatswain to theIsabel. Although Denham had attained what might be considered the height of his ambition, he hoped, while in command of the frigate, to make a still higher name for himself. Opportunities of doing so were not likely to be wanting. England had enemies in all directions, and there was every probability that a fine dashing frigate like theIsabelwould soon meet with a foe well worthy of her. She was, however, much to the disappointment of her commander and crew, sent to the Mediterranean, which, by that time, had been pretty well cleared of all England’s enemies. There was work, however, to be done, and whatever Denham was ordered to do he performed it well. Having, at length, come home with despatches, he was sent to the West Indies, where he had already seen a good deal of service.During this time he had few opportunities of hearing from the Earl of Kilfinnan, to whom, however, he occasionally wrote, and got a kind answer in return. Again, after nearly four years’ service, he was on his way home. When about three parts across the Atlantic, the weather for some time before having been very bad, a ship was reported right ahead. As the frigate approached her, she was seen to have her ensign downwards, as a signal of distress. She appeared to be a large merchantman. Her topmasts were gone, and she had, in other ways, evidently suffered from the heavy weather. As soon as the frigate drew near enough, she was hove to, and a boat being lowered, she was sent on board the stranger. As the officer in command of the boat stepped on board the ship, he was struck by the fearful appearance it presented. A few of the crew, pale and emaciated, were dragging themselves about the deck, scarcely able to stand upright, while on mattresses placed close to the bulwarks were numerous human beings, some apparently dead, others dying, moaning fearfully and in plaintive voices, petitioning for water.It was a long time before the lieutenant could get any one to explain what had happened. The captain, it appeared, had died, and so had most of the officers and the passengers. Their bodies had been thrown overboard. Great was his horror when he at length ascertained that they were suffering from the yellow fever. The weather was very hot, and it was but too likely even that this short visit to the pest-infested ship might cause him to convey it to the crew of the frigate. What, however, was to be done? He could not leave the unfortunate people on board the merchantman to perish by themselves, without help; while, should he remain, he and those with him might catch the same complaint. He found on inquiry that several persons were down below who had hitherto escaped the pestilence. At length, uncertain how to act, he returned on board theIsabel, to receive instructions from his captain. The surgeon of the frigate was of opinion that the only safe plan was thoroughly to fumigate the vessel, and put a prize crew on board, to navigate her to an English port, as it would be unsafe to take any of the people out of her. This plan was followed, and an officer with twelve men went on board to carry the ship to Bristol.It was hoped that from the short time the lieutenant and his men were on board no infection could have been conveyed from her to the frigate. Before two days, however, had passed these hopes were found to be fallacious. Two of the men who had been on board the merchantman were seized with the fearful complaint, and the following day were corpses. Several others in the course of a few hours were seized in the same manner. Their illnesses in each case terminated fatally. As is often the case, a panic seized the whole crew, and men who would have faced an enemy boldly, trembled at the thoughts of the attacks of this unseen foe. The captain and officers had tried to encourage them and revive their spirits; but all seemed in vain. Not a day passed without several of the men being committed to the deep, and no one knew who would be the next victim. The surgeon declared his belief that the seeds of the disease must have been contracted in the West Indies, as it was impossible it could have been communicated by the people of the merchantman.“Let the cause be what it may, the best hope we have of getting free of the fever is to meet an enemy of equal size to ourselves; and, then, while we are fighting him, I have no doubt that ‘Yellow Jack’ will take to flight,” observed the captain.At length a breeze sprang up, and although the disease had not altogether ceased, it had considerably decreased. A sharp look-out was kept at all hours for any sail which might appear on the horizon. At length one was observed in the south-west, and all sail was made in chase. For some time probably theIsabelwas not seen by the vessel she was chasing. The latter, however, was at length seen to make sail, and to stand away to the west. TheIsabelwas a fast vessel, and every effort was now made to increase her speed. The sails were wetted, every stitch of canvas she could carry was set, and every other device adopted to urge her through the water.In those days the engagements which had taken place between English and French ships had terminated in most instances so disastrously to the latter, that Napoleon, it was said, had ordered all his cruisers to avoid fighting if they possibly could. This might have accounted for the flight of the stranger; for as theIsabeldrew nearer, she was discovered to be either a heavy frigate or a line-of-battle ship. On a still nearer approach the French ensign flew out from her peak, and it was ascertained, without doubt, that she was a large frigate, a worthy antagonist for theIsabel. Superior as the enemy might be in guns and in number of men, Captain Denham resolved to attack her. The engagement he knew would be a severe one; but he trusted for victory to the tried gallantry of his officers and crew, and the resolution with which they would work the guns. He had the weather-gauge, and he hoped by skilful manoeuvring to retain it. The enemy finding she could not escape, now hauled up her courses, and made every preparation for battle. TheIsabel, when she drew near enough, at once opened fire to cripple her antagonist, and to retain the position she now enjoyed. This first broadside considerably cut up the Frenchman’s rigging; but the fire theIsabelreceived in return did her still greater damage, badly wounding the fore-topmast. Davis went aloft to examine it, and reported on his return that he feared it would not stand much longer. Both the frigates now standing on a wind, continued to exchange broadsides; the English firing at the hull of their antagonist, while the Frenchman seemed to aim more particularly at cutting up the masts and rigging of the English ship.“She seems to be full of men, and I suspect her object is to get alongside, and to take us by boarding,” observed the captain to his first lieutenant.“We will show them what British steel can do if they make the attempt, sir,” was the answer.The Frenchman attempted to luff across the English ship’s bow, in the hopes of raking her, but Denham was too much on the watch to allow her to execute this manoeuvre successfully. A considerable number of theIsabel’smen had been killed. Still, her crew fought on with undaunted courage. At length, her fore-topmast, which had before been severely injured by a chain shot, came down with a crash upon the deck. The Frenchmen shouted when they saw this, and another shout escaped them when they saw the main-topmast follow the fate of the other mast.“If they attempt to run us on board we will try to secure them, as we did in theCynthia,” observed the captain. “If we let a few of the Frenchmen come on board, we can quickly dispose of them, and then return the compliment.”“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the lieutenant; “I will give the order to the men to prepare for boarding. They are ready enough for it.”Scarcely had he spoken, when the French frigate, luffing up, ran her bows against the quarter of theIsabel. She was immediately secured there by Davis and others; and now the Frenchmen came rushing over the bows, expecting to make her an easy prize.“Boarders, repel boarders,” shouted the first lieutenant.“I will lead you, my men,” cried the captain, springing to the side.A few Frenchmen who had gained the deck of theIsabelwere immediately cut down; and now the English in turn swarmed over the enemy’s bows. In spite of all opposition, they worked their way aft. No power seemed capable of resisting them. Although the Frenchmen for some time stood their ground, they were driven back. Step by step the British blue-jackets fought their way, and numbers sank before the sturdy blows of their cutlasses. Many of the Frenchmen were armed with pistols, by which several of the English were wounded. During this time Davis had ever kept close by the side of his commander. Captain Denham was leading on his men, when suddenly his cutlass dropped from his hand, and he would have fallen had not Davis supported him. At the same moment, a tall Frenchman, with uplifted cutlass, was in the act of bringing it down upon his head, when Davis, bringing his own weapon to the guard, saved his captain, and with a return cut sent the Frenchman reeling backwards.“On, my lads, on,” shouted the captain, again rising to his feet. “Though I cannot use my sword, you can keep yours going instead.”The energy with which he spoke was infused into his followers, and pushing onward they drove the Frenchmen before them. The Frenchmen, encouraged by their officers, attempted to rally; but no sooner had they done so, than, led by their gallant captain, the English made another dash forward, and again drove them back. Meantime, the weather had been changing, and the moderate breeze which had hitherto been blowing, was followed by a heavy gale. Although theIsabelwas well-nigh dismantled, she was still more than a match for her opponent. In a short time, numbers of the Frenchmen having fallen, an officer was seen to run aft and haul down the French flag. The prize was won. She mounted four more guns than did theIsabel, with a far more numerous crew. The prospect of bad weather made it necessary at once to send a prize crew on board the captured frigate, and to remove the greater part of her own people, so that a few Frenchmen only were left on board. Great was the delight of the crew at finding, from the report of the surgeon, that their captain’s wound was not likely to prove serious, though his arm might be disabled for some time.The second lieutenant was ordered on board to carry the prize into Plymouth, she having suffered but little damage in her rigging, while her captor was in a far worse condition. Some time was occupied in clearing away the wreck of the topmasts, and once more getting the ship into order. The gale, however, fearfully increased, and the frigate in an almost helpless condition, having lost sight of her prize, was driven towards the coast of Ireland. Happily, the yellow fever had completely disappeared; but Captain Denham had another cause of anxiety, lest his ship might be driven on that rocky shore on which so many a fine vessel has been lost. He anxiously looked out, therefore, for signs of the gale breaking, and that he might be able once more to make sail and beat off shore. His hopes, however, seemed likely to prove vain. The morning dawned, and far away to the east as the eye could stretch, appeared the high land of the Irish coast. He had hoped to have hauled up sufficiently to have weathered Cape Clear. The gale continued till the frigate was close in with the coast. Shipwreck now seemed inevitable, for no other sail could be set to enable her to beat off shore. There was a bay to the south, but that would now afford no shelter, and no other harbour was open to her. It seemed impossible that she could be saved. One only resource remained, to anchor and cut away the masts. Orders were, therefore, given to prepare for this last alternative. The cables were ranged along the deck, and spare anchors got up from below. The dark seas came rolling in with unabated force from the west, while they broke with terrific force on the rocky shore under her lee. The spray dashed over her bows, flying fore and aft as she forced her way gallantly through the seas. The gale still continued with unabated force. Masses of clouds came rushing by overhead, rapidly succeeding each other, while under her lee-bow appeared a long reef of rocks, the dangers of which were well-known to many on board. Still, hopes were entertained that she might be able to weather it. The eyes of the master and other officers, indeed of most on board, were turned now seaward, now to the rocky shore, and now to the reef on the lee beam. There seemed to all but little prospect, unless by a sudden change of wind, of being able to weather the latter.“She would not stay if we were to attempt to go about,” observed the first lieutenant, “and there is no room to wear, or it might be better if we were upon the other tack, so as to escape yonder threatening reef.”“We may possibly weather the reef,” observed the master; “but if we were to attempt either to stay or to wear, we should inevitably be driven upon the rocks.”Several of the best hands were at the helm, watching for the directions of the master. Sometimes, after a slight shift in the wind, hopes were entertained that the reef might be escaped; but then, again, it was found she was making so much leeway that even this slight hope was abandoned. Onward she rushed to her inevitable destruction, it seemed. Meantime, the wounded commander had been lying in his cot. Several times he had desired to be carried on deck, but the surgeon, who sat by his side, entreated him to stop where he was, fearing the excitement would be too great, and that his wounds, which had hitherto been going on favourably, might take a turn for the worse.“Then send the master to me,” he said, “that I may learn the exact position of the ship.”The master made his appearance.“I wish she was in a better position than she is, sir,” he observed; “but we are doing all that men can do to claw off shore, and if we had had our topmasts, there would have been no difficulty about the matter. She makes fearful leeway, and there is an ugly reef ahead, which I do not altogether like; but I have been in as bad a case before and escaped, and I pray Heaven we may get clear this time.”“Doctor, you must let me go on deck, that I may see the worst. It is torture to lie here below,” exclaimed the wounded captain.“But the master says, sir, that we have a prospect of hauling off shore, and I again repeat that you would only incur great danger by exposing yourself to the cold wind and spray that you would have to encounter. No, no, sir; stay where you are, and let us hope for the best.”Many more anxious minutes passed. The master returned to his duty on deck, and the captain, having full confidence in his judgment, would not again send for him.“Come, doctor, there are many poor fellows want your aid besides me; go and look after them, I entreat you,” he said at length. “They will give me notice in time enough when all hope is gone, or, I trust, I may soon hear that the ship has weathered the reef, and has brought up in the bay.”Scarcely had he spoken when a loud roar of breakers reached even to where he lay. A cry arose on deck, and the next instant there came a fearful crash. The frigate had struck on the reef. The captain was endeavouring to rise from his cot, when Davis rushed into the cabin.“It is a bad case, captain!” he exclaimed; “but while I have life, you know I will stay by you. We are not far from the shore, and maybe, if the ship goes to pieces, some plank or timber may carry us there in safety.”Denham allowed himself to be carried on deck, where Davis secured him to the only portion of the wreck over which the sea did not break. The captain gazed around. The ship had struck upon the much-dreaded reef. Huge seas came rolling in, and, dashing against her with terrific force, had already begun to tear away her upper works, and it was evident she could not long remain in that position without going speedily to pieces. Many of the crew had already been washed away; others were clinging to different parts of the wreck. Some, including the officers, were endeavouring, not far from the captain, to form a raft, on which they hoped to reach the shore. It appeared, however, very doubtful whether they would succeed.“Let us chance it, sir,” said Davis; “I will haul a grating here, and put you on it. Maybe, we shall be safely washed on shore.”“No, no, Davis,” answered the captain faintly; “you remember how the brave Dutchman behaved when his ship was sinking. As long as two planks hold together I will stay by the frigate, or till every one has left her. You go, my friend; you are strong and unhurt, and, God protecting you, you may still save your own life.”“What? leave you, sir? leave you, Captain Denham?” exclaimed Davis. “I have not sailed with you for so many years to act thus at last. We swim or sink together. I have never feared death, and he is not now going to make me do a cowardly act.”“Well, well, Davis, I fear there is no use urging you. Perhaps, too, we run as little risk here as we should struggling in those boiling seas,” said the captain.“Right, sir; the frigate is new and strong, and maybe, she will hold together until the gale somewhat abates,” answered the boatswain. “I wish those poor fellows would stay on board with us; it might be the better for them.”“I would not order them to stay, Davis,” answered the captain. “These seas, if they continue long, must break up the stoutest ship, and it is a fearful thing to have to struggle among floating timbers, washed about round such rocks as these.”While they were speaking, many of the crew, clinging to spars and planks, were seen drifting towards the shore. Few, however, appeared to reach it. Some, exhausted by their exertions, let go their hold and sank. Others were cast upon the reef, mangled fearfully by the timbers which were thrown upon them. The rest, meantime, continued to work at the raft. The surviving officers then came to the captain, and urged him to allow them to place him upon it, but he remained firm to his resolution.“No, no,” he answered; “do you leave the ship as you think best; but she was placed under my command, and nothing shall induce me to desert her as long as she holds together.”
We must for a time follow the fortunes of Charles Denham. Those were days of rapid promotion, when an officer’s name stood well at the Admiralty. The young commander had not long served his time on board the corvette before he received his post rank. Scarcely twelve years had passed since he first stepped on board a man-of-war as a young seaman before the mast, when he found himself in command of a fine frigate of thirty-six guns—theIsabel. Ned Davis, who had followed him into every ship in which he served, now, by his advice, having applied for a warrant, was appointed boatswain to theIsabel. Although Denham had attained what might be considered the height of his ambition, he hoped, while in command of the frigate, to make a still higher name for himself. Opportunities of doing so were not likely to be wanting. England had enemies in all directions, and there was every probability that a fine dashing frigate like theIsabelwould soon meet with a foe well worthy of her. She was, however, much to the disappointment of her commander and crew, sent to the Mediterranean, which, by that time, had been pretty well cleared of all England’s enemies. There was work, however, to be done, and whatever Denham was ordered to do he performed it well. Having, at length, come home with despatches, he was sent to the West Indies, where he had already seen a good deal of service.
During this time he had few opportunities of hearing from the Earl of Kilfinnan, to whom, however, he occasionally wrote, and got a kind answer in return. Again, after nearly four years’ service, he was on his way home. When about three parts across the Atlantic, the weather for some time before having been very bad, a ship was reported right ahead. As the frigate approached her, she was seen to have her ensign downwards, as a signal of distress. She appeared to be a large merchantman. Her topmasts were gone, and she had, in other ways, evidently suffered from the heavy weather. As soon as the frigate drew near enough, she was hove to, and a boat being lowered, she was sent on board the stranger. As the officer in command of the boat stepped on board the ship, he was struck by the fearful appearance it presented. A few of the crew, pale and emaciated, were dragging themselves about the deck, scarcely able to stand upright, while on mattresses placed close to the bulwarks were numerous human beings, some apparently dead, others dying, moaning fearfully and in plaintive voices, petitioning for water.
It was a long time before the lieutenant could get any one to explain what had happened. The captain, it appeared, had died, and so had most of the officers and the passengers. Their bodies had been thrown overboard. Great was his horror when he at length ascertained that they were suffering from the yellow fever. The weather was very hot, and it was but too likely even that this short visit to the pest-infested ship might cause him to convey it to the crew of the frigate. What, however, was to be done? He could not leave the unfortunate people on board the merchantman to perish by themselves, without help; while, should he remain, he and those with him might catch the same complaint. He found on inquiry that several persons were down below who had hitherto escaped the pestilence. At length, uncertain how to act, he returned on board theIsabel, to receive instructions from his captain. The surgeon of the frigate was of opinion that the only safe plan was thoroughly to fumigate the vessel, and put a prize crew on board, to navigate her to an English port, as it would be unsafe to take any of the people out of her. This plan was followed, and an officer with twelve men went on board to carry the ship to Bristol.
It was hoped that from the short time the lieutenant and his men were on board no infection could have been conveyed from her to the frigate. Before two days, however, had passed these hopes were found to be fallacious. Two of the men who had been on board the merchantman were seized with the fearful complaint, and the following day were corpses. Several others in the course of a few hours were seized in the same manner. Their illnesses in each case terminated fatally. As is often the case, a panic seized the whole crew, and men who would have faced an enemy boldly, trembled at the thoughts of the attacks of this unseen foe. The captain and officers had tried to encourage them and revive their spirits; but all seemed in vain. Not a day passed without several of the men being committed to the deep, and no one knew who would be the next victim. The surgeon declared his belief that the seeds of the disease must have been contracted in the West Indies, as it was impossible it could have been communicated by the people of the merchantman.
“Let the cause be what it may, the best hope we have of getting free of the fever is to meet an enemy of equal size to ourselves; and, then, while we are fighting him, I have no doubt that ‘Yellow Jack’ will take to flight,” observed the captain.
At length a breeze sprang up, and although the disease had not altogether ceased, it had considerably decreased. A sharp look-out was kept at all hours for any sail which might appear on the horizon. At length one was observed in the south-west, and all sail was made in chase. For some time probably theIsabelwas not seen by the vessel she was chasing. The latter, however, was at length seen to make sail, and to stand away to the west. TheIsabelwas a fast vessel, and every effort was now made to increase her speed. The sails were wetted, every stitch of canvas she could carry was set, and every other device adopted to urge her through the water.
In those days the engagements which had taken place between English and French ships had terminated in most instances so disastrously to the latter, that Napoleon, it was said, had ordered all his cruisers to avoid fighting if they possibly could. This might have accounted for the flight of the stranger; for as theIsabeldrew nearer, she was discovered to be either a heavy frigate or a line-of-battle ship. On a still nearer approach the French ensign flew out from her peak, and it was ascertained, without doubt, that she was a large frigate, a worthy antagonist for theIsabel. Superior as the enemy might be in guns and in number of men, Captain Denham resolved to attack her. The engagement he knew would be a severe one; but he trusted for victory to the tried gallantry of his officers and crew, and the resolution with which they would work the guns. He had the weather-gauge, and he hoped by skilful manoeuvring to retain it. The enemy finding she could not escape, now hauled up her courses, and made every preparation for battle. TheIsabel, when she drew near enough, at once opened fire to cripple her antagonist, and to retain the position she now enjoyed. This first broadside considerably cut up the Frenchman’s rigging; but the fire theIsabelreceived in return did her still greater damage, badly wounding the fore-topmast. Davis went aloft to examine it, and reported on his return that he feared it would not stand much longer. Both the frigates now standing on a wind, continued to exchange broadsides; the English firing at the hull of their antagonist, while the Frenchman seemed to aim more particularly at cutting up the masts and rigging of the English ship.
“She seems to be full of men, and I suspect her object is to get alongside, and to take us by boarding,” observed the captain to his first lieutenant.
“We will show them what British steel can do if they make the attempt, sir,” was the answer.
The Frenchman attempted to luff across the English ship’s bow, in the hopes of raking her, but Denham was too much on the watch to allow her to execute this manoeuvre successfully. A considerable number of theIsabel’smen had been killed. Still, her crew fought on with undaunted courage. At length, her fore-topmast, which had before been severely injured by a chain shot, came down with a crash upon the deck. The Frenchmen shouted when they saw this, and another shout escaped them when they saw the main-topmast follow the fate of the other mast.
“If they attempt to run us on board we will try to secure them, as we did in theCynthia,” observed the captain. “If we let a few of the Frenchmen come on board, we can quickly dispose of them, and then return the compliment.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the lieutenant; “I will give the order to the men to prepare for boarding. They are ready enough for it.”
Scarcely had he spoken, when the French frigate, luffing up, ran her bows against the quarter of theIsabel. She was immediately secured there by Davis and others; and now the Frenchmen came rushing over the bows, expecting to make her an easy prize.
“Boarders, repel boarders,” shouted the first lieutenant.
“I will lead you, my men,” cried the captain, springing to the side.
A few Frenchmen who had gained the deck of theIsabelwere immediately cut down; and now the English in turn swarmed over the enemy’s bows. In spite of all opposition, they worked their way aft. No power seemed capable of resisting them. Although the Frenchmen for some time stood their ground, they were driven back. Step by step the British blue-jackets fought their way, and numbers sank before the sturdy blows of their cutlasses. Many of the Frenchmen were armed with pistols, by which several of the English were wounded. During this time Davis had ever kept close by the side of his commander. Captain Denham was leading on his men, when suddenly his cutlass dropped from his hand, and he would have fallen had not Davis supported him. At the same moment, a tall Frenchman, with uplifted cutlass, was in the act of bringing it down upon his head, when Davis, bringing his own weapon to the guard, saved his captain, and with a return cut sent the Frenchman reeling backwards.
“On, my lads, on,” shouted the captain, again rising to his feet. “Though I cannot use my sword, you can keep yours going instead.”
The energy with which he spoke was infused into his followers, and pushing onward they drove the Frenchmen before them. The Frenchmen, encouraged by their officers, attempted to rally; but no sooner had they done so, than, led by their gallant captain, the English made another dash forward, and again drove them back. Meantime, the weather had been changing, and the moderate breeze which had hitherto been blowing, was followed by a heavy gale. Although theIsabelwas well-nigh dismantled, she was still more than a match for her opponent. In a short time, numbers of the Frenchmen having fallen, an officer was seen to run aft and haul down the French flag. The prize was won. She mounted four more guns than did theIsabel, with a far more numerous crew. The prospect of bad weather made it necessary at once to send a prize crew on board the captured frigate, and to remove the greater part of her own people, so that a few Frenchmen only were left on board. Great was the delight of the crew at finding, from the report of the surgeon, that their captain’s wound was not likely to prove serious, though his arm might be disabled for some time.
The second lieutenant was ordered on board to carry the prize into Plymouth, she having suffered but little damage in her rigging, while her captor was in a far worse condition. Some time was occupied in clearing away the wreck of the topmasts, and once more getting the ship into order. The gale, however, fearfully increased, and the frigate in an almost helpless condition, having lost sight of her prize, was driven towards the coast of Ireland. Happily, the yellow fever had completely disappeared; but Captain Denham had another cause of anxiety, lest his ship might be driven on that rocky shore on which so many a fine vessel has been lost. He anxiously looked out, therefore, for signs of the gale breaking, and that he might be able once more to make sail and beat off shore. His hopes, however, seemed likely to prove vain. The morning dawned, and far away to the east as the eye could stretch, appeared the high land of the Irish coast. He had hoped to have hauled up sufficiently to have weathered Cape Clear. The gale continued till the frigate was close in with the coast. Shipwreck now seemed inevitable, for no other sail could be set to enable her to beat off shore. There was a bay to the south, but that would now afford no shelter, and no other harbour was open to her. It seemed impossible that she could be saved. One only resource remained, to anchor and cut away the masts. Orders were, therefore, given to prepare for this last alternative. The cables were ranged along the deck, and spare anchors got up from below. The dark seas came rolling in with unabated force from the west, while they broke with terrific force on the rocky shore under her lee. The spray dashed over her bows, flying fore and aft as she forced her way gallantly through the seas. The gale still continued with unabated force. Masses of clouds came rushing by overhead, rapidly succeeding each other, while under her lee-bow appeared a long reef of rocks, the dangers of which were well-known to many on board. Still, hopes were entertained that she might be able to weather it. The eyes of the master and other officers, indeed of most on board, were turned now seaward, now to the rocky shore, and now to the reef on the lee beam. There seemed to all but little prospect, unless by a sudden change of wind, of being able to weather the latter.
“She would not stay if we were to attempt to go about,” observed the first lieutenant, “and there is no room to wear, or it might be better if we were upon the other tack, so as to escape yonder threatening reef.”
“We may possibly weather the reef,” observed the master; “but if we were to attempt either to stay or to wear, we should inevitably be driven upon the rocks.”
Several of the best hands were at the helm, watching for the directions of the master. Sometimes, after a slight shift in the wind, hopes were entertained that the reef might be escaped; but then, again, it was found she was making so much leeway that even this slight hope was abandoned. Onward she rushed to her inevitable destruction, it seemed. Meantime, the wounded commander had been lying in his cot. Several times he had desired to be carried on deck, but the surgeon, who sat by his side, entreated him to stop where he was, fearing the excitement would be too great, and that his wounds, which had hitherto been going on favourably, might take a turn for the worse.
“Then send the master to me,” he said, “that I may learn the exact position of the ship.”
The master made his appearance.
“I wish she was in a better position than she is, sir,” he observed; “but we are doing all that men can do to claw off shore, and if we had had our topmasts, there would have been no difficulty about the matter. She makes fearful leeway, and there is an ugly reef ahead, which I do not altogether like; but I have been in as bad a case before and escaped, and I pray Heaven we may get clear this time.”
“Doctor, you must let me go on deck, that I may see the worst. It is torture to lie here below,” exclaimed the wounded captain.
“But the master says, sir, that we have a prospect of hauling off shore, and I again repeat that you would only incur great danger by exposing yourself to the cold wind and spray that you would have to encounter. No, no, sir; stay where you are, and let us hope for the best.”
Many more anxious minutes passed. The master returned to his duty on deck, and the captain, having full confidence in his judgment, would not again send for him.
“Come, doctor, there are many poor fellows want your aid besides me; go and look after them, I entreat you,” he said at length. “They will give me notice in time enough when all hope is gone, or, I trust, I may soon hear that the ship has weathered the reef, and has brought up in the bay.”
Scarcely had he spoken when a loud roar of breakers reached even to where he lay. A cry arose on deck, and the next instant there came a fearful crash. The frigate had struck on the reef. The captain was endeavouring to rise from his cot, when Davis rushed into the cabin.
“It is a bad case, captain!” he exclaimed; “but while I have life, you know I will stay by you. We are not far from the shore, and maybe, if the ship goes to pieces, some plank or timber may carry us there in safety.”
Denham allowed himself to be carried on deck, where Davis secured him to the only portion of the wreck over which the sea did not break. The captain gazed around. The ship had struck upon the much-dreaded reef. Huge seas came rolling in, and, dashing against her with terrific force, had already begun to tear away her upper works, and it was evident she could not long remain in that position without going speedily to pieces. Many of the crew had already been washed away; others were clinging to different parts of the wreck. Some, including the officers, were endeavouring, not far from the captain, to form a raft, on which they hoped to reach the shore. It appeared, however, very doubtful whether they would succeed.
“Let us chance it, sir,” said Davis; “I will haul a grating here, and put you on it. Maybe, we shall be safely washed on shore.”
“No, no, Davis,” answered the captain faintly; “you remember how the brave Dutchman behaved when his ship was sinking. As long as two planks hold together I will stay by the frigate, or till every one has left her. You go, my friend; you are strong and unhurt, and, God protecting you, you may still save your own life.”
“What? leave you, sir? leave you, Captain Denham?” exclaimed Davis. “I have not sailed with you for so many years to act thus at last. We swim or sink together. I have never feared death, and he is not now going to make me do a cowardly act.”
“Well, well, Davis, I fear there is no use urging you. Perhaps, too, we run as little risk here as we should struggling in those boiling seas,” said the captain.
“Right, sir; the frigate is new and strong, and maybe, she will hold together until the gale somewhat abates,” answered the boatswain. “I wish those poor fellows would stay on board with us; it might be the better for them.”
“I would not order them to stay, Davis,” answered the captain. “These seas, if they continue long, must break up the stoutest ship, and it is a fearful thing to have to struggle among floating timbers, washed about round such rocks as these.”
While they were speaking, many of the crew, clinging to spars and planks, were seen drifting towards the shore. Few, however, appeared to reach it. Some, exhausted by their exertions, let go their hold and sank. Others were cast upon the reef, mangled fearfully by the timbers which were thrown upon them. The rest, meantime, continued to work at the raft. The surviving officers then came to the captain, and urged him to allow them to place him upon it, but he remained firm to his resolution.
“No, no,” he answered; “do you leave the ship as you think best; but she was placed under my command, and nothing shall induce me to desert her as long as she holds together.”