When Philip presented himself on the quarter-deck, he had the mortification to perceive a general coldness and disapprobation among the officers, very painful to one of his quick feelings and high spirit; and he attributed this contempt to his low birth. Perhaps many of them were not without prejudice on that subject; but, in addition to this, his former mutinous conduct had not failed to make a very ill impression on the minds of these gentlemen; and this conduct they now appeared to remember, so far as to render the time of Lord Robert's absence very uncomfortable, and to deprive Philip of most of the pleasure his new rank had given him. When Lord Robert returned, he found his friend, whom he expected to have seen full of joy and spirits, walking by himself in a very melancholy mood. To his anxious inquiries respecting the reason of his dejection, he replied, by relating the various slights which he had experienced since his departure.
"I went on deck with a heart full of goodwill to every one," added he; "and expecting to find every one there noble, generous, and refined, like yourself. But see how they have treated me!"
"For which, my young friend, you have no one to blame but yourself," observed Lieutenant Cary, who had returned with Lord Robert, and listened to Philip with some interest. Philip looked at him with surprise, but he continued:
"You perhaps forget, but they doubtless remember, that at the time you thought proper to act the part of a mutineer, among the other accomplishments of that character, you had a most provoking tongue; and there is not one of these gentlemen but has had a specimen of your sarcastic repartees, addressed to them, while in the lawful exercise of the authority with which their country has intrusted them. And they now think fit to show how much they disapprove of your former conduct when on board the Diomede, and that they do not think one worthy to command who formerly would not obey."
Philip blushed deeply as he assented to the justice of these observations; but Lord Robert, who was highly incensed at the conduct of the officers, exclaimed, with no little of his usual impetuosity, "Nonsense! Cary; they must have seen that I only was to blame for his behaviour then."
"Perhaps, as far as related to the blow which he struck, you were," replied Cary; "and during your residence at the island, to which you have given soappropriatea name, it appears he completely satisfied you for all his offences, and forgave you for yours. But, remember, the other officers who had given him no reasonable cause of offence, are not obliged to look over all the saucy speeches he addressed to them, because a reconciliation has taken place between you."
"But when they know all his noble conduct to me, they must and shall treat him with respect!" replied Lord Robert; and, drawing Philip's arm through his, he advanced towards the group of officers, who had withdrawn to a different part of the deck, and were discussing the matter among themselves.
"Gentlemen," said he, "give me leave to present to you my friend, Mr. Harley; for whose former faults I own myself more than answerable. He is sensible that you all have had cause to be offended with him at different times; but he trusts that you will have reason in future to forget the rashness of the pressed man in the merits of the midshipman; to which rank our noble captain, in reward of his valour in the last engagement, has thought proper to promote him. I say nothing of his admirable conduct to myself; though, I trust, that, with all my faults, his having been the means of saving my life will be a recommendation to my brother officers; and I should hope that his lowly birth will not be remembered to his prejudice by officers of the British navy, whose boast it is that some of its proudest ornaments[7]have risen from before the mast."
A murmur of applause followed this speech, which was seconded by Lieutenant Cary's presenting his hand to young Harley; and his example was followed by all the gentlemen present, who, with the frankness of British officers, offered him successively their congratulations on his promotion.
"Spoken like yourselves, my gallant friends!" exclaimed Lord Robert, warmly shaking hands with his brother officers; "it shall never be said by our enemies, that valour and merit were slighted in the British navy, unless recommended by the adventitious advantages of rank or riches in their possessor."
Lord Robert knew the way to the hearts of his brave friends. To their good feelings he did not appeal in vain; and Philip never again had reason to complain of the least slight or disregard from any officer on board the Diomede; and never till that hour had Lord Robert tasted how truly delightful is the possession of power, when the influence which more or less it holds in society is applied to a noble purpose; and Philip Harley, by his steady attention to his duty, and his officer-like and gallant conduct in his new rank, speedily erased from the minds of these gentlemen his former mutinous and violent behaviour, and obtained the highest praise from his just and discriminating commander. How proud was Philip—how happy Lord Robert, whenever Sir Henry Stanley expressed his approbation at this conduct! There never was a friendship more warm or sincere than that which now subsisted between the two former enemies, who used often to relate their mutual sufferings, as a warning of the folly of answering a provocation, or retaliating an injury.
Before they sailed from Rio de Janeiro, Sir Henry Stanley generously presented Philip with every equipment necessary for his appearance as a gentleman; and, during the voyage home, he was the friend, companion, and pupil of Lord Robert, who delighted to impart to him every accomplishment and took the greatest pleasure in witnessing the development of his naturally fine talents.
When the Diomede approached the shores of England, Philip again began to be fearful lest the high rank of Lord Robert should separate them; but he was agreeably surprised, when, on their landing, Lord Robert insisted on his taking a place in the equipage that conveyed him to Lancashire; and, though he permitted Philip to visit first the lowly home of his sorrowing parents, yet he and his noble father came for him the next day, and invited him to the Hall, where he shared in all the unbounded affection and caresses which the Marquis and Marchioness bestowed on their noble son.
On the first arrival of the Diomede at Rio de Janeiro, Sir Henry Stanley, supposing he had seen his nephew and Philip Harley perish, wrote to England an account of the dreadful loss, which was received both in the cottage and at the Hall with the deepest affliction. Since that time, no communication had been received; but as the Diomede was nearly ready to sail when the young friends arrived from the island, they themselves brought the first intelligence to England of their safety and welfare. They found each family in deep mourning, and plunged in acute sorrow, which was changed into extravagant joy at their unexpected arrival. The Marquis had become acquainted with most of the circumstances that occasioned the enmity between his son and Philip Harley, and had suffered much remorse, reproaching himself continually for having torn the only surviving child from his parents to meet an untimely death. From his natural goodness of heart, he greeted Philip's safe return as that of another son, particularly when he found he was indebted to him for the delight of seeing Lord Robert once again.
The unlimited indulgence which the young friends met with at home might have been attended with bad effects, had they remained long exposed to its influence. But, in less than a month, they were again summoned to resume their duties on board the Diomede, where Sir Henry had hoisted his flag on his promotion to the rank of Admiral.
Both the friends were possessed of those high talents which, when combined with valour, seldom fail of obtaining great distinction; and so nobly did they acquit themselves in their naval duties, that after many years had witnessed their career of glory, and they had attained the height of their profession, England never saw two braver admirals than Lord Robert Summers and the Mutineer.
Among the springs and mosses of Alston Moor, near the source of the South Tyne, are several little grass farms, on which are bred sheep and black cattle by the industrious farmers of Cumberland and Northumberland. In a most retired spot between the two counties, dwelt old farmer Ridley and his grandson Arthur. The farmer was one of those small landholders, who are calledstatesmenin the dialect of the northern counties; he had lost his wife, but she had left him two sons. Walter Ridley, the elder, was the father of Arthur, and captain of a merchant ship, that traded to the Baltic, from the port of Newcastle. He had married a tradesman's daughter from that place, who died when little Arthur was but two years old; and Walter, who knew not what to do with so young a child, begged his father to take the boy, and bring him up at the farm, till he was old enough to go to sea. About four years after, Hugh Ridley, the farmer's younger son, was killed in the command of a privateer, while he was endeavouring to take a French merchant ship. It was greatly against the wishes of old Mr. Ridley that both his sons followed so dangerous a profession: one of them, at least, he hoped would have remained at home to assist in cultivating the peaceful little farm which had descended from father to son for three centuries; but both the sons made light of the wishes of their father; and Hugh actually disobeyed his express commands, when he became captain of the privateer; a mode of life agreeing well enough with his rude rough habits, but which the good farmer abhorred and detested, justly considering such an occupation to be but one degree better than the pursuits of a pirate. This act of disobedience was soon punished; for Hugh Ridley fell in the first engagement, leaving a young widow and a little girl quite destitute. His death filled his father's heart with sorrow, and he lost no time in fetching his widowed daughter-in-law and her little Phœbe from Newcastle, and bringing them to his own quiet home, to the great joy of young Arthur, who promised to love aunt Rachel and cousin Phœbe better than his best pet lamb. Indeed, he said that little Phœbe was much prettier than his finest cosset; besides, she could answer all his questions, and ask him a thousand in return. They passed their happy summers together, keeping the sheep and cows on Alston Moor; in the winter, their good grandfather taught them to read the Bible; and in the long evenings, Phœbe spun by her mother's side, while Arthur learned to write and keep accounts. Arthur seldom saw his father, who only came to the farm for a few hours, when he was on shore, and then only laughed at his quiet habits and peaceful temper, slapped him rudely on the back, and asked him whether he were not ashamed of remaining lounging on shore like a coward and a milksop.
But Arthur was no coward. True, his very fair complexion and placid features gave him that gentle look which might well deceive careless observers into the belief that any insult might be offered to him with impunity; but there was a quiet, determined firmness in his character,—a spirit which silently says, on the appearance of any difficulty, "I will overcome it." On such minds success is a sure attendant: they follow the toilsome path which leads to glory and distinction with unwearied and steady steps, and often leave those of bold demeanour and boasting tongues at a hopeless distance.
Mr. Ridley's house was a very long way from the other farms; so when Arthur and Phœbe drove their cattle to any distance from home, on the moor, to seek fresh pasture, they were considered as strangers and intruders, by the boys who kept the flocks of the neighbouring farmers. Though somewhat older than Phœbe, Arthur was scarcely so tall as the blooming girl; and she looked better able to be his protector, than to receive assistance from him; but Phœbe knew well to whom to fly in any danger, as her cousin would beat off the most ferocious dog, or the biggest boy that strove to molest her. The farmers' sons in the neighbourhood, when once they had tried the force of Arthur's well-knit little arm, and felt the effects of his cool, determined courage, soon retracted the mean opinion they had formed of his prowess; and left off their favourite amusements of pelting his whitest lambs with mud, and running after Phœbe, to pull the long flaxen ringlets which floated from under her bonnet.
At fourteen, Arthur Ridley thought himself the happiest boy in the world; for his grandfather had a gold medal presented to him at an agricultural meeting in the county, as a prize for showing there six finer and fatter lambs than any one else could produce. Mr. Ridley told every one that it was by the care and attention of his grandson, that his flock throve so well; and the nobleman who held the meeting patted Arthur's head, and told him he would be an honour to Cumberland, and hoped that he should see him at the next sheep-shearing. Oh! how Arthur loved the dear little lambs that had obtained for him such an honour! And, all the way home, he secretly resolved never to be anything but a farmer.
We may suppose that Arthur anticipated the next June with great delight: but, alas! the succeeding summer, though it bloomed fairer than ever, brought no joy in its course to him; for it was in that lovely season that his young heart was to know the first taste of sorrow.
The spring set in cold and stormy, and it was a very bad lambing-time for the ewes. Farmer Ridley was more anxious for their well-doing than usual, and, in taking care of some of the early new-fallen lambs, he caught a bad cold, attended with ague, which hung on him through the two succeeding months; and before May came with all her flowers, even the inexperienced eyes of his grandchildren read, in his sunken temples and hollow cheeks, that the mortal foe within would soon rob them of their venerable protector. Arthur's father had passed the winter in Hamburgh, and was now expected home every day. Mr. Ridley wished much to behold his son once more in this world; and he seemed to linger from hour to hour, in the hope of seeing him again; till, about eventide, on the 2nd of May, his last minutes drew to a close. "Arthur," he said, in a faint voice. Arthur started from the place where he was leaning his head against the casement, and approached the bed.
"Arthur," he said, "your father is away; but tell him from me to take care of your aunt Rachel and your cousin Phœbe: I have little to leave them; for the farm is entailed on my eldest son, and must descend to you. Tell him that my dying request is, that he will never suffer them to want a home. They will find, in my oaken box, eighty guineas in a yellow canvas bag, and my will, which directs the money to be divided between them. And now, Arthur, my dear boy, you have ever been a dutiful child to me; be the same to your father, whatever his commands may be, and make it your rule to do your duty in that state of life unto which it may please God to call you."
The rising sun beamed on the bed of death; the venerable Mr. Ridley was no more! And his sorrowing family were not to be consoled. The next Sunday, they followed his remains to the grave. It was in vain that the first day of early summer smiled on them, and that between every solemn response of the burial service the blackbird sang loud and joyously; their hearts no longer leaped to the sound once so full of delight.
"Oh, Arthur," said Phœbe, as her tears fell on her black sleeve, "we shall never see May-flowers again without mourning!"
Three melancholy days passed on, before Arthur could resume his former employments; but on the evening of the fourth, after he had folded his sheep, he returned home, expecting to see aunt Rachel busy in preparing the milk-porridge for their supper, and Phœbe watering the flowers, or gathering salad in the garden. Phœbe was not there. He lifted the latch of the door; his cousin was laying the cloth, and aunt Rachel was roasting a fowl for supper. In the chimney-corner, and in his grandfather's high-backed chair, sat his father. Walter Ridley's stern features were softened by an expression of grief; he looked more kindly on his son than he had ever done before; and Arthur thought that when time had whitened his thick black hair, and dimmed the fire of his dark eyes, he would resemble in person his lamented grandfather.
Captain Ridley was very kind to his sister-in-law and niece; and when Arthur told him the last request of his father, he patted Phœbe's curly head, and said:
"Never fear, pretty one, I'll take care of you and your mother; you shall never want for a shilling, whilst Wat Ridley has one, if it's only for the sake of poor brother Hugh. Your uncle Hugh was a brave fellow, Arthur! I wish I could see some of his manly spirit in you, boy!—So, sister Rachel, you shall live in the farm, and look after the kine and sheep, and live as comfortably as you can. If you have a shiner or two over and above at the end of the year for me, it's all very well; and if you have not, I shan't complain; so don't starve your little one here. And when Arthur and I come back, after roving the salt waters for five or six years, mayhap we may stay at home for good; that is, if Phœbe should like the lad for a husband, and he should fancy her."
Rachel thanked her brother-in-law for his kindness towards her and her child; but Arthur, though much pleased with his father's intentions in respect to his cousin, did not like what he said about the sea.
"Are you determined that I shall be a sailor?" he asked, in a disconsolate voice.
"Hark'e, boy," said Captain Ridley; "I am determined to make a man of you. So don't let's have any puling and muling, but pluck up a good heart: and if you be a coward, don't show it. I have bought a good tight ship at Hamburgh, and have laid out all my earnings for these twenty years, that I may be owner of the vessel I sail in; she is freighted with a valuable cargo, and will soon sail for Norway; and you are to have a berth in her: so say no more, for I have made up my mind on the matter."
Arthur submitted in silence; for he well remembered the last words of his grandfather, and made up his mind to obey his father, let his will be what it would; besides, he was very grateful for the kindness shown to his aunt and cousin. "I shall leave them in the bosom of our peaceful home," thought he; "so I must not displease my father, for he must have a good heart to be so kind to them."
In two days, Captain Ridley declared his intention of being off, as he called it. In vain Rachel and Phœbe pleaded for time to make Arthur some new shirts, and pack up different things that he would want during a sea-voyage.
"No, no," said Captain Ridley; "the boy has been made too much of a pet and cosset already. I shall fit him out with check-shirts and blue jackets at Newcastle. I'll make a brave fellow of him, I warrant you. There's been too many parsons and farmers among the Ridleys. Nobody would believe they came of the same bold fellows who used to ride the border some three hundred years ago. Who ever heard of a boy making a brave, manly character, who spent his time lounging at the tails of two or three kine or sheep? So, Arthur, my boy, your aunt and cousin will find you quite a different sort of a lad when you come home from your first voyage."
The next morning Arthur bade adieu, with a heavy heart, to the home he loved so much; and kissed his good aunt and the weeping Phœbe, with tears in his eyes; but he durst not cry, for fear of bringing on himself the rough taunts of his father. Captain Ridley had been to the village church-yard that morning, to visit the new-made grave of his father; he there remembered that he had not always been the most dutiful of sons to him who now slept beneath the green turf; and he felt half inclined to fulfil what he knew was his departed father's wish, and suffer Arthur to remain at home and look after the farm: but then he thought again, that when he grew old, and left off going to sea, and came to live at home, there would be no one to talk to him of seafaring matters: so he hardened his heart against the tears and entreaties of Phœbe and her mother, and took Arthur to Newcastle, where his ship, the Aurora, lay in harbour, ready to sail.
Arthur found this new mode of life even more disagreeable than he had imagined; however, he made a resolution to go through all that was required of him with uncomplaining patience, and to shrink from none of the hardships of his situation. Neither his father nor any of the crew were disposed to lighten his difficulties; all were on the watch to jeer at the mistakes of the young landsman; not but they were a little surprised to see him go through the first seasoning of a seafaring life with so much spirit. The sailors, naturally generous and frank, in a little time began to look on him with more favourable eyes, particularly an old friend of his father's, who sailed in the Aurora as mate.
"Well, Captain," said he one day, as he saw Arthur aloft, and going through his duties with great adroitness, "what do you think of our young seaman now? To my mind, he will turn out as brave a fellow as ever stepped between stem and stern."
"He is better than might be expected from his breeding," returned Captain Ridley: "but I doubt he will turn out a sad chicken-hearted thing in time of danger."
"We shall see," said the mate: "but if young Arthur don't show more spirit than many of those who talk big and bluster, never believe a word that old Jack Travers says to you again."
"Well, well, old shipmate, I wish it may be as you say; but, I own, I have not such good hopes of him."
Arthur soon found a good friend in Jack Travers, who was determined that he should not disgrace his predictions. During their voyage to Norway, he taught Arthur to keep the log-book, to take the sun's meridian altitude, to navigate the ship, and to perform the duties of a complete seaman.
Travers had spent the chief part of his life at sea, and had seen and suffered much. He had twice lost his all by shipwreck, and had once been taken prisoner by the French; he had of course seen a great deal of the world, and had made many intelligent observations on the countries where fortune had thrown him; and was intimately acquainted with the customs and manners of the people whose shores they were now approaching.
One summer night, when Arthur and Travers were on the watch together, Travers began to tell him of all he had suffered by storm and wreck, in the course of a long and disastrous life. "The last ship I sailed in," said he, "the unfortunate Dædalus, was wrecked on one of the small islands that stud the coast of Norway, off Drontheim. Now, there was no very good understanding between the English and the subjects of the King of Denmark, because of the battle of Copenhagen, the carnage of which was so great as to occasion general mourning and sorrow throughout Denmark and Norway. However, the brave Norwegians did not look upon us in the light of enemies, but as suffering and shipwrecked men, and treated us most kindly during the time we remained with them; which was more than three of their winter months. A merchant of Drontheim gave me a berth in a ship of his, that was bound to Hamburgh; and there I met with your father, Arthur, who never was yet the man to see an old shipmate in distress without giving a helping hand. He offered to put me as mate in the Aurora, which he had just purchased. So here I am; but whether my bad fortune will pursue me still, I know not."
"I hope not," said Arthur; "for it is hard, at your time of life, to be without the means of obtaining those comforts you will soon greatly need: but did you not spend your time very miserably, to pass so many months in a strange country, the language of which was unknown to you?"
"As for that," returned Travers, "thank God! I am not given to be very miserable anywhere. A seaman, who knows his duty, bears cheerfully whatever hap Heaven may send him. But in fact, I never passed any time pleasanter than I did in Norway. We were quartered on the farmers and pilots who inhabited the coast where we were thrown. The good people, instead of murmuring at the burden of our maintenance, came down with their sledges, and contended whose home should afford shelter to the shipwrecked strangers. I was not willing to eat the bread of idleness, so I lent a helping hand to whatever work was going forward. As to language, I found the inhabitants of the sea-coast very familiar with the English tongue; and I knew a little German, by reason of trading to Hamburgh; so, between the two, we made out very well. The coast of Norway is tremendous to the sailor at the fall of the year, when the equinoctial winds begin to blow; as you will judge when I tell you the observations I have made during my acquaintance with it. The coast extending upwards of three hundred leagues, is beset with a multitude of small islands, affording habitations to fishermen and pilots, and pasture to a few cattle. They form an infinite number of narrow channels, and a natural barrier of rocks, which render Norway inaccessible to the naval power of its enemies. Attempts of this kind are the more dangerous, as the shore is generally bold, steep, and impending; so that, close to the rocks, the depth of the sea amounts to one hundred, two hundred, and even three hundred fathoms. You may easily judge of the fate of the unfortunate ship that is hurled by tempests against any of these frightful rocks: if she breaks, she instantly fills, and must go down into a dreadful depth of water; and it is only by the most signal mercy that any of the crew is ever saved. The perils of the North Sea are also increased by sudden streams, sunk rocks, violent currents, and dreadful whirlpools. The most remarkable vortex on the coast is called Moskœstrom, from the small island Moskœ, belonging to the district Lofoden. In time of flood, the stream runs up between Lofoden and Moskœ, with the most boisterous rapidity; but in its ebb to the sea it roars like a hundred cataracts, so as to be heard at the distance of many leagues. On the surface are many vortices; and if in one of those any ship be absorbed, it is whirled down to the bottom, and dashed in pieces against the rocks.
"When its fury has been heightened by a storm, no vessel ought to venture within a league of it. Whales are frequently absorbed within the vortex, and howl and bellow hideously during their fruitless endeavours to free themselves. A bear, in attempting to swim from Lofoden to Moskœ, was once hurried to this whirlpool, from which he struggled in vain for deliverance, roaring so loud as to be heard on shore; but, notwithstanding all his efforts, he was borne down and destroyed. Large trees, being drawn into the current, are sucked down, and rise again all shattered to splinters. There are three vortices of the same kind near the islands of Ferroe."
Before the vessel reached Christiania, the short northern summer had commenced in all its beauty. Arthur had expected to see an icy, desolate coast; he could not think that fair sunny days would smile so far northwards; and when the Aurora entered the bay of Christiana, he could scarcely believe it was the port to which they were bound.
Before them lay the town of Christiana, situated at the extremity of an extensive and fertile valley, forming a semicircular bend along the shore of the beautiful bay. The grounds, laid out in rich enclosures, gradually sloped to the sea. Behind, before, and around appeared the inland mountains of Norway, covered with dark forests of pines and fir, the inexhaustible riches of the North. The most distant summits were capped with perpetual snows. From the glow of the atmosphere, the warmth of the weather, the variety of the productions, and the mild beauties of the adjacent scenery, it was hardly possible to believe that they were nearly under the sixtieth degree of latitude.[8]
"Is it possible?" said Arthur, as he stood on deck by the side of Travers; "can this blooming land be one of the coldest and most barren regions of the North?"
"Ah," said Travers; "but you see it in the midst of its short, lovely summer; its aspect would be bleak and horrid, were you to visit it during the nine winter months. Were you to hear the roaring of the winds among the mountains, the fall of great heaps of snow, and oftentimes of huge masses of stone and rocks from their heights—sometimes choking up the course of rivers, and overwhelming the cottages of the peasants—you would then hardly believe that the return of the sun could produce so much beauty as you now see before you."
"I have heard," said Arthur, "that, farther to the North, the sun never sets in the height of summer, nor rises in the depth of winter."
"I have been at Tronsen,"[9]said Travers, "near the northern extremity of this country, where the sun is continually in view at midsummer; I have seen it circulate day and night round the North Pole, contracting its orbit, and then gradually enlarging it, until it leaves the horizon. In the depth of the winter, therefore, it is for some weeks invisible: and all the light perceived at noon is a faint glimmering, for about one hour and a half, which proceeds from the sun's rays being reflected from the highest mountains. But the inhabitants have other lights, by which they follow their work in the open air. The sky being very clear, the moonshine is remarkably bright: they are likewise much assisted by the Northern Lights,[10]which are very frequent in these parts of Europe."
"My grandfather showed me the Northern Lights once, in Cumberland," said Arthur; "and told me they signified that something very dreadful would soon happen to the country; for they were never seen but when famine, or plagues or rebellions were about to come to pass. What do you think about it, Travers? are such bad things very common in Norway?"
"Not that ever I heard," returned Travers. "Indeed, the poor people would be in a desperate way, if they were to have plagues and battles every time they saw the Northern Lights. Why, Arthur, they see them as often as we see the stars in England; and I have read, on a Sunday night, the psalm for the day out of my prayer-book, as plain in the open air, at ten o'clock, as ever I did by a candle. But that's the way with you landsmen: you sit at home and scare yourselves, and shake your wise heads, and prophesy evil, if a little glimmer reaches you of what is as common as the air you breathe in other countries."
Arthur did not greatly approve of hearing the opinion of his venerated grandfather treated with so much contempt: yet he plainly saw the folly of converting into an omen of ill a harmless and beautiful meteor; which is a blessing, as common as it is useful, in a country a few degrees farther to the north.
Captain Ridley soon became very busy in disposing of his cargo, and buying the different commodities that Norway produces, to reload his vessel with. He bought copper, and iron forged into bars, (the iron of Sweden and Norway is esteemed very good—much better than any England produces;) marble he used for ballasting the ship; he likewise bought goat-skins, and seal-skins, and some very valuable furs of the fox and marten, of which he expected to make a great deal of money in England. Another article of commerce, which is sold to great advantage in England, Captain Ridley made part of his cargo, viz. eider-down feathers.[11]He gave his son leave to purchase what pleased him most, to take home as presents for his aunt and cousin. Arthur accordingly bought a handsome fur cloak for aunt Rachel, and some curious baskets made of birch-bark, and beautifully wrought with coloured quills, for Phœbe. They passed about two months in Norway: by the expiration of which time Captain Ridley had completed his lading, and got everything ready for returning to England.
Arthur's heart bounded with joy as the sails were set for England; and he now looked forward with sensations of pleasure towards the continuance of the life which his father had chosen for him. He had gained experience and knowledge, and felt happy that he had obeyed his parent, however distasteful his commands were at first. Captain Ridley was very proud of his ship; her clever sailing and tight figure were the perpetual theme of his discourse and admiration: he was, besides, in excellent spirits on another account; for he felt confident that he had laid out his money to great advantage in the cargo, and expected a clear profit of several hundreds.
They ran before a favourable gale for some days, till, one clear lovely morning, as Captain Ridley was standing on deck talking over his expected gains with Arthur, Travers called from the main-top, "Look abaft, Captain; for I think we are chased?" Ridley flew to his cabin, and returning with his telescope, plainly saw a ship bearing down before the wind, in full pursuit of them. All hands instantly went to work, to raise every bit of canvas the Aurora could carry; and as she was a swift-sailing vessel, they had hopes that she would keep ahead of the enemy until night came on, when she might elude the pursuit under the shades of darkness. But, alas! the same gale which bore the Aurora so bravely along, brought her lightly-laden pursuer more swiftly after her. At length, after a hard chase, and a day of the most agonizing suspense to our poor countrymen, about sunset their fate seemed decided, when the adverse ship bore down upon them within hail, and fired a gun to bring them to. The crew of the Aurora still ventured to hope that, after all, she might be a neutral ship; but the experienced eye of Travers had from the first noted all her bearings, and felt convinced that she was a French privateer; which was soon confirmed by her hoisting the tri-coloured flag, and preparing to board. To resist was utterly useless, as a single broadside from the armed ship would have soon settled the fray: and Captain Ridley saw his favourite ship the prey of the most lawless and insolent crew that ever manned a privateer!
To a man of Ridley's violent passions, this stroke was worse than death; but his indignant expressions were only answered by laughter and mockery from the enemies into whose hands he had fallen, and who added insult and ill-usage to the calamities of war. It was at that period of the French Revolution when the war was carried on between the two nations with a fury scarcely known in modern times, and the animosity of the French towards our country knew no bounds.
There could scarcely be a more dreadful situation than that of the crew of this defenceless merchant ship, which had fallen into the hands of men whose bad passions were inflamed by national hatred. For many hours, the English expected every moment to be their last. Outrage succeeded outrage, and massacre seemed resolved on; but at last, after many blows and much reviling, the privateers contented themselves with thrusting their prisoners, strongly ironed, into the hold. These were horrors of which poor Arthur had never even dreamed; yet, in the terrors of that dreadful night, there was a satisfaction to his well-regulated mind in the consciousness that he was near his suffering parent, and could offer all the consolation that can be received from the affection of a dutiful child. And, truly, Captain Ridley had great need of it. Neglected by the ruffians who had conquered them, they were left without food; and, what was infinitely more needful, without water. This, joined to want of air, (the hatches being close shut down,) made their situation almost equal to that of the prisoners in the black hole at Calcutta.
Walter Ridley had hitherto been a fortunate man in life: where others had met with storms and capture, he had sailed securely and prosperously. This he did not fail to attribute to his own wisdom and merit, instead of ascribing it to the protecting hand of a bountiful Providence; therefore, when this reverse of fortune came, he received it with transports of rage, instead of patience and resignation. The violence of his emotions, and the confinement and ill usage he underwent, had such an effect on his frame, that, long before the morning, he was attacked by a dangerous illness. Poor Arthur sat by him, holding his burning hands, and offering his bosom as a pillow to his aching head; nor could the wild and frantic exclamations, uttered in the delirium of fever, affright the affectionate boy from the side of his suffering father.
The next day had nearly passed, before the captors thought fit to take any notice of their prisoners; they then resolved to divide the English crew; for as the captain of the French privateer determined to cruise in search of fresh prey, he did not choose to encumber himself with his prize.
Seven of Captain Ridley's crew were carried on board the privateer; and himself, Travers, and Arthur, were left below, with two sailors, in the hold. The French captain put his mate and a few seamen on board the Aurora, just sufficient to navigate her into Dunkirk, and proceeded on his cruise. The situation of the prisoners was now a little improved: for the mate, to whose charge they were committed, took off the fetters from Captain Ridley and Travers, and allowed them better berths; and when Arthur, by signs, made him understand how ill his father was, he gave him some wine, and suffered him to occupy the cabin that had formerly been his own. For some days, Arthur thought it impossible for his father to live, as his illness was violent, and he had no medical assistance; yet the strength of his constitution was such, that in a few days he passed the crisis of the fever favourably, and got a little better, though he remained as weak and feeble as an infant. Travers kept up his own and Arthur's spirits with the hope that they might fall in with some British cruiser and be retaken; but, however probable such a circumstance was, yet day passed after day, and they still remained captives, until it was reckoned that another or two would bring them into a French port. Arthur's mild manners and affectionate attention to his sick father induced the French mate to permit him to come when he pleased on deck; and one morning, after he had watched by his father till he fell asleep, he asked Travers to supply his place while he went on deck to take a little fresh air. He sat down on a chest, after he had paced to and fro in a very melancholy mood, and began to muse sorrowfully on the case they were in. "Here," thought he, "my poor father will be dragged to a French prison, and there he must die; for, in his weak state, the hardships he will have to go through will certainly kill him; and, perhaps, I shall never see England, nor my home, nor my cousin Phœbe again! Is there no remedy to be found for all this?"
He kept lifting up the lid of the chest he sat on, without noticing what he was about, till he pinched his finger pretty sharply, which drew his attention to it; and he saw it was a chest of arms belonging to the Frenchmen, and filled with sabres and muskets. At the first glance of these weapons, a thought darted through Arthur's brain, which he instantly ran down to communicate with Travers. He mentioned the arms to him, and said: "What hinders our retaking the ship? Surely it might be done with a little prudence and courage."
"And dare you venture on a scheme so full of peril? Can you look death stoutly in the face? For I tell you plainly, if we should fail, death, without mercy, would be our portion. Think on it, boy, and search your own mind; for an undertaking of this kind requires a cool head and an undaunted heart!"
"I dare," said Arthur firmly, laying his hand on his breast; "I will freely venture my life to regain the ship and our liberty. Think of a plan, and I will do my part as far as my strength will go."
"I have thought much of it already," answered Travers; "but your years were so tender, that I mistrusted your prudence, though not your courage. If we attempt it, we must proceed by art, rather than by force. We must take the opportunity of mastering the French, when one part of the crew are asleep and the other off their guard."
"In the night, I suppose?" said Arthur.
"Yes," said Travers. "It will be a sanguinary business; but the provocation was theirs. Surely a man may strive even unto death for his liberty."
"Ah!" said Arthur; "but it is a frightful thing to murder so many sleeping men—to send so many to their great account, without a moment's warning. I have thought that it is possible to take them prisoners without hurting them."
"Well!" said Travers; "let us hear your plan. I should be glad of anything that would save me the horrid work of despatching sleeping men."
"If I had a large gimblet and a dozen strong nails," said Arthur, "I would engage to secure all the Frenchmen but two, without hurting a hair of their heads."
"Yours seems a notable plan!" said Travers; "and if it is only the want of such tools that stops you, here is a great gimblet that the Frenchmen lent me, instead of a corkscrew, and you will find two or three hundred large nails in that cupboard. But tell me how such a little fellow as you can think of mastering six stout men?"
"You know," replied Arthur, "that if a hole were bored in the panels of our sleeping berths, and a nail slipped in when they are shut, it would be impossible to slide them back, to open them. I go about the ship without being suspected, and could take the opportunity, when the men are all on deck, of boring a hole, and fitting a strong nail in each berth, ready to be put in when I choose; and when the Frenchmen are all safe asleep in their berths, I may put in the nails, and they will be as safe as if they were caught in so many traps."
"It is an ingenious scheme," said Travers; "and I allow that it has every prospect of success. To-night, therefore, we will make the attempt; for every hour brings us nearer to Dunkirk. But hark'e, Arthur; don't let your father know our plan till it has either succeeded or failed; for he is so impatient, and still so weak, that the suspense would probably kill him."
"It will be much the best," said Arthur; "but I must go, for the Frenchmen are all on deck,—so now or never."
So saying, he left the cabin. Hour passed after hour, and Travers saw no more of him. Captain Ridley awoke; and Travers gave him some gruel, which he had boiled for his dinner. The sick man found great fault with it, and inquired very peevishly for Arthur. Travers made him some vague answer, and Captain Ridley complained much of his absence, assured Travers that he was the worst nurse in the world, and that it was a shame for that boy to leave him, and at last grumbled himself to sleep again.
Travers now began to be exceedingly alarmed; thinking that Arthur had been taken in the attempt, and perhaps murdered. He looked at the sun, (for his captors had spared him the trouble of keeping a watch,) and thought it might be about four o'clock, when Arthur appeared at the cabin-door, and with a pale cheek, but a look of determined courage, beckoned Travers, without uttering a word. He left the cabin, and followed Arthur with a noiseless step. While they were ascending the companion-ladder, Arthur turned round, and said in a low voice: "Every man in the ship is secured excepting two; one of whom is at the helm, and the other in the shrouds: master them, and the ship is ours!"
There was no time for questions; or Travers would have asked how all this came to pass: but Arthur hurried him on deck; and, going to the arm-chest, gave Travers a sabre, and armed himself with a musket. Travers stepped to the steerage, and took the helmsman unawares; who uttered a cry of astonishment at seeing a man standing near him in a threatening attitude, with a drawn sabre in his hand, and began, with a loud voice, to implore for mercy. This supplication reached the ears of his companion in the shrouds, who, putting a stop to the Marseillaise Hymn, with which he was entertaining himself, began to descend with great expedition. But Arthur stopped his progress by levelling his musket at him; and by his menaces made him understand, that if he did not remain where he was, he would receive the whole contents in his body. Now the French sailor did not know, nor did Arthur at the time remember, that there was no charge in the musket. However, it had the effect of intimidating the man, who made signs that he would obey, and supplicated with his hands for his life.
Travers and Arthur had proceeded thus far with success; but they were at this moment in a most awkward predicament, for each held his man in check, yet it was necessary to do something more. The steersman was a strong muscular fellow, and notwithstanding that, had at first been frightened by the suddenness of the occurrence; yet Arthur saw, by the expression of watchfulness that lurked in the turn of his eye, that he only waited till Travers was off his guard, to spring upon him.
There was a coil of strong rope, which lay about twelve paces from Arthur on the deck; of this he longed to make himself master: but he was afraid of taking his attention from his prisoner above; for he knew how soon a sailor could swing himself from rope to rope, and stand on deck in a moment. At last he lost all patience, and determined to trust to the man's fears: so with one spring he seized the cord and gave it to Travers, and resumed his guard with the musket, whilst Travers pinioned his prisoner, and bound him so strongly that escape was impossible. They then beckoned the man above to descend, and soon bound him safely. "Now," said Arthur, "you must take the helm, my friend; whilst I go below, and set at liberty our two shipmates, who are confined between decks."
He soon returned with the two English sailors, who could scarcely believe that they were at liberty, and the ship in their possession. Travers's first care was to shift the sails and alter their course. They then went down to tell Captain Ridley what had happened. As soon as they came below, they heard a most violent uproar among the Frenchmen, who were shouting and calling, and accusing each other of shutting up the berths. Travers thought it quite necessary to dispose of them, for fear, when they grew desperate, they should split the panels. He therefore called down the stoutest of his men, opened the berths, one by one, and put the irons they had formerly occupied, on their astonished prisoners; who by many gestures and exclamations, expressed their surprise at such a proceeding.
They then took them to the hold; and, after securely confining them, they went to Captain Ridley.
When Arthur came into the cabin, his father was sitting up in his berth, with a very discontented air; and, after making a sour face or two, began to complain of being neglected. He told Arthur that he could have sat up a few hours, if he had been there to dress and assist him. "I have just been wakened," said he, "by those detestable Frenchmen making the most hateful noise I ever heard: I thought they were certainly murdering you all."
"Come, come, Walter!" said Travers; "don't look so sulky at the most noble boy that ever a father was blessed with: but take Arthur in your arms, and thank him for the recovery of your ship and of your liberty."
"What!" said Captain Ridley; "have we met with one of our cruisers? And are we retaken? Well, Travers, if you are in your right wits, and know what you are talking of, this is the news that will presently make me well again."
"Did I say that we had fallen in with any of our ships?" answered Travers. "But I tell you now, in plain English, that by the prudence and courage of your brave boy, your ship is your own again: we are all free; the Frenchmen are in irons; and we have tacked about for Old England, instead of being carried into Dunkirk."
"AndArthur, you say, has done all this; but how?—You are not given to tell lies, Jack Travers,—and yet I can hardly believe it."
"I don't wonder that you can't," returned Travers, "for I can scarcely trust my own senses that it is so. But this is the short of the matter: Arthur, this morning, contrived a scheme for fastening the Frenchmen in their berths when they were asleep. He went away to prepare matters for it. The attempt was not to have been made till night. But, to my surprise, he came to me, an hour ago, and told me he had all our enemies secure, except two. Those we easily managed; and, after getting the assistance of our two men, we as easily mastered the others. How Arthur contrived to execute his plan so soon, he can best tell you, for I have not yet heard."
But Arthur could not just then speak. He had thrown himself into his father's extended arms, and given ease to the fulness of his heart in a burst of tears. It was some moments before he raised his head from his father's bosom, who thanked and blessed him, and declared that were everything in the world taken from him and his gallant boy spared, he should still consider himself the happiest and richest of men.
When Arthur had recovered from the agitation that had deprived him of his voice, Travers again pressed him to tell by what means he had secured the Frenchmen.
"You know," said Arthur, "I left you with the intention of fitting the nails into the panels. I got safely into the cabin, where they slept, and soon bored all the holes; but when I came to fit in my nails, I found they might be pushed out with a violent shake; and, you know, they could not be knocked in tight without a great noise. For some minutes I thought our scheme was at an end; but at last I remembered there was a paper of large screws in the locker. These I soon found, and made holes in the top and bottom of each panel, and then greased the screws; so that I could put them all in with a screw-driver without the least noise. I likewise greased the slides of the panels, that they might slip easily. Well, while I was at work, I recollected that the Frenchmen were in the habit of sleeping for an hour or two in the middle of the day, leaving only two men on deck. This, therefore, appeared the best time for the execution of our plan; for it was likely we might blunder in the dark, and they were off their guard and in such security in the middle of the day, that I was determined to try. About three o'clock, they all came down and tumbled into their berths. I waited more than half an hour, and then stole into the cabin, hoping they were asleep. Some of the panels were open; my hands trembled as I closed them; but fortunately I made no noise. After I had put in the screws, I tried every panel, and found that all were well secured. I then went to you: and, by the blessing of Heaven, everything has thus far gone prosperously!"
"And all we have now to do," said Travers, "is to keep what we have gained; that, Arthur, is not the least part of the work: but there shall be no exertion wanting on my part to bring the good ship safe into an English port."
Travers faithfully kept his word: for he paced the deck of the Aurora, with pistols in his hands, almost night and day; and when he was compelled to take a little rest, Arthur kept watch with equal vigilance. Two desperate attempts were made by the French crew to regain their liberty: the last time, Captain Ridley (who was now able to walk about and come on deck) was greatly inclined to send a volley of musket-balls among them; but Arthur and Travers both implored him to shed no blood, if it were possible to avoid it. After a few days of incessant toil and anxiety, a favourable gale carried them into the Thames; and, a few hours after their arrival at Sheerness, they had the pleasure of seeing the privateer which had captured them brought in as a prize, at the stern of a British frigate. She had been taken whilst cruising in the Channel: and thus the whole of the crew of the Aurora were delivered from their anticipated sufferings in a French prison. Captain Ridley lost no time in disposing of the Aurora and her cargo. He said he would tempt the sea no longer, but remain peacefully in the quiet home he was so fortunate as to possess. "And, Travers, my friend," said he, "I need hardly tell you, that whilst I have a guinea, you shall share it; and whilst I have a home, it shall shelter you." Half of the money which the cargo produced, Captain Ridley settled on Travers: he rewarded the two men who had assisted in bringing home the Aurora, and made a present to all his sailors who had been retaken in the privateer.
During their stay in London, their story was the news of the day; and much admiration was excited by the conduct of Travers and Arthur; and Captain Ridley was given to understand, from high authority, that if his son chose to enter the navy, he should be peculiarly marked for promotion.
Walter Ridley no longer wished to control his son. He respected his courage and high principles; and left it to his choice, whether he would return and cultivate the farm, or accept the offer that had been made him.
"Father," said Arthur, "I am very young, and have a life before me that I am now convinced may be more usefully employed than in a state of inactive ease. I will serve my country with alacrity; and I pray God I may be able to do something for her service."
I will not stay to describe their arrival at Alston Moor, nor the joyful meeting between Arthur and his aunt and cousin. Many years have rolled on since Arthur went through his service as midshipman, and passed as lieutenant with the greatest credit: he is now a gallant and distinguished officer,—the pride of his father, the delight of his old friend Travers, an honour to his country, and the husband of his pretty cousin Phœbe.
The picture I have drawn is not exaggerated. Arthur is no creature of my imagination; it was drawn from life, and may be realized by any youth who takes for his rule of life the maxim of our Church: "Do thy duty in that state of life unto which it shall please God to call thee."
This tale is founded on facts: and the recapture of the ship, extraordinary as it may seem, is a simple relation of occurrences that really happened, in the beginning of the American war, when the Lark merchant-ship was taken by a French privateer, and retaken by her captain, having no English on board, but a boy, and an English merchant, one of the Society of Friends. This gentleman refused to stain his hands with blood: but assisted in this peaceable recapture with great firmness and resolution. The underwriters presented the captain with £100, as a small reward for his intrepidity.
Nearly a century and a half ago, there lived, in a little cottage on the eastern coast, an aged widow and her two grandsons. Although neither carpenter nor bricklayer was employed in the construction of this cottage, it was as neat a fisherman's cabin as any in that part of England. James Mayhew, the widow's son, had ingeniously built it on the sea-beach, under the cliffs. It was formed of pebbles and sea-stones; and he had, with great toil and labour, carried down earth from the cliffs, and made a nice little kitchen-garden, which formed a pleasing contrast with the barren sands that surrounded the cottage; and this, with a shed for a cow, (which got her living on the common belonging to the adjacent town,) made a very comfortable little dwelling place. It was poor James's summer work; and at Michaelmas he brought to live in it his widowed mother, old Amy Mayhew, and his wife, who had formerly been a tidy dairy-maid, and to whom he had been married just a twelvemonth. Now James was very clever and industrious; he could turn his hand to any sort of work; he would labour for the farmers at harvest and seed-time, and pursued the trade of a fisherman the rest of the year. He made one harvest on the land, and two more from the sea; for he used to go out in a boat and catch herrings and mackerel at those seasons when they abound so plentifully on our coasts. James was an excellent son and husband, and would, no doubt, have been as good a father. His wife had just presented him with two twin little boys, when James was forced to leave her, to go to sea for the herring-fishery; and, sad it is to tell what followed! though such events are too common on these coasts. From the cottage window, his boat was seen to founder; and the wife never beheld her husband, nor the mother her son, until the tide threw up his corpse within a few yards of his own door. His poor wife, in her weak state, was unable to bear so severe a shock, and sank into a state of stupefaction, which was soon succeeded by death. The neighbouring townsmen contributed a sum to bury the poor young people: and many, who were standing by at the funeral, and saw the sorrow of the aged Amy, and thought of the hard trial which had befallen her, said it would have been a mercy if the orphan little twins had been buried in the same grave with their unfortunate parents! But Amy did not think so. "God bless the poor babes!" she said; "they are all that is left me of my good dutiful James: I will do my best to bring them up; and, if my life be spared so long, I may see them prove a blessing and a comfort to me; and, perhaps, they may lay my head in the same grave with my poor son!"
Amy did, indeed, strive to do her best to rear her poor little grandsons. She was often seen with a baby on each arm coming into the town to fetch the cow off the common; and then the good-hearted sailors, who had known her son, would give her a white loaf for the babes, or a piece of meat or cheese for herself. With these helps, and with the milk from the cow and the vegetables from the garden, she contrived to get through that trying year. "Before the winter comes again," she said to a friendly old pilot who had called to see her, "my little boys will run alone; and when these aged arms are relieved from their heavy burden, I shall be able to work hard for their living."
Amy was firm in her resolution: and, by her good nursing, the little orphans throve and grew nicely,—so that by the end of the next summer they could run about, holding by each other, to assist their steps. They were very good and quiet, and fond of each other, and gave much less trouble than could have been expected.
Amy was now able to earn a little money by netting; and by the time the children were three years old, James and Michael learned to fill her netting needles with the twine she made the herring-nets of; and the little creatures would stand by her the whole day, each watching until his turn came to fill granny's needle. When they grew a little older, they used to pick up stones on the beach, which were wanted in the town for building. They carried them up the cliffs by little baskets-full at a time, and laid them in a heap, and then the bricklayers gave for them a halfpenny a bushel. And when the cold snowy winter nights came, they learned to net, and helped their grandmother a great deal. By the time they were twelve years old, the boys nearly earned their living. James got something every week, by fetching his neighbours' cows off the common: he was always up by five in the summer, and before light in the winter, that he might not be too late. He soon got work at the Hall farm, in the next parish; and though it was a long way to walk, night and morning, he was always there in time, and contrived to do some work for his grandmother in the hours he had for his meals. James took delight in the quiet employments of the country; he greatly preferred the husbandman's life to the unsettled condition of the fisherman or sailor. Michael, on the contrary, loved the sea, and always tried, in getting his daily bread, to remain, if possible, by the beach, as it was his most ardent desire to be a sailor. It may be supposed this wish gave pain to his poor grandmother, who never heard him express it without thinking of the death of his father. To divert him from his inclination, she did her best to teach him to read; but, though both he and his brother were very apt, and could soon read a chapter in the Bible, yet, even in that holy book, Michael contrived to find something to flatter his passion for ships and sailors. By the time the boys had attained the age of fourteen, James had learned so much of the duties of husbandry, that his employer, as a reward for his diligence and industry, promised to hire him for the following year at man's wages. Poor Michael was much hurt that his brother would now be able to maintain his grandmother, and give her those comforts that her age required, whilst he could merely fish on the beach with lines for whiting or cod, or pick up stones for the bricklayers; and that he could do when he was but seven years old. He was so ashamed of his inferiority, that he made a resolution of going to labourer's work with his brother, and was determined to give up his favourite wish, to please his good grandmother; but an accident which happened that winter altered his intention.
The day had closed-in some time, on the Christmas eve; and, though the moon showed a bright light, yet the wind had risen as the night came on, and soon blew a furious easterly gale directly on to this dangerous coast. Amy had swept her cottage clean, and looked out some time for her grandsons, when James trudged in with a billet of wood on his shoulder, which he threw on the hearth. "I have staid later than usual, granny," he said, "to look after the horses of some gentry, who have just arrived at the Hall to spend the Christmas holidays; but the good 'Squire has sent you this nice piece of beef for your dinner to-morrow, and this wood to warm your poor limbs this bitter weather."
"May heaven bless both you and your good master!" said the grateful Amy: "and may both he and his ever have good cheer and warm fires, when the cold and hard weather comes on! But, James, have you seen your brother?"
At that minute, Michael opened the door: he brought with him some fine whiting on the lid of an old basket. "I have been lucky to-day, grandmother," said he; "I have caught as many fish along-shore as I sold in the town for seven groats. Here is the money; let it be put in the earthen pot, with the rest that is to buy you a red cloak this cold weather."
"Thank you, my dear Michael," said Amy: "how good and dutiful you both are! The time was, when I thought that the Almighty had dealt hardly in taking from the lone widow her only son,—but he has restored me that blessing in a twofold degree; and if I could but see you take to quiet farming-work like James—"
"Well," said Michael, "I will do my best to like it: though, I am afraid, I shall never get over my wish to be a sailor. But look at these fine fish! I might have sold them in town; but, I thought, as it was Christmas-tide, that you should have them for supper."
Amy now began to bestir herself to dress the supper. She soon raised a cheerful blaze; but just as she was putting on the fish, the loud report of a gun at sea made her start and drop them. It seemed so close to the cottage, that the concussion made everything rattle and ring around.
"Heaven help them!" said Amy; "it is some poor distressed ship's crew at sea, firing guns for help this stormy night. Oh, Michael! this is what you wish for! This is the life you love so much! Can you say you wish to be a sailor now?"
"I wish," answered Michael, "I had been sailor enough to go off in the pilot-boat I saw trying to put off just now as I came under the cliffs. There's a brave ship—a king's ship, I believe,—has been in distress all the evening; and they want a pilot to go to her, for they fear she will be driven by the gale right on to the bar;—but the wind and waves run so contrary, that though they have been trying for this hour, they cannot get the boat off. Hark! there is another gun! She has certainly struck! Oh that I could help them!"
Michael now started up, and sprang to the door; but Amy ran after him, and held him back. "Oh, stay, my dear boy," she cried; "don't go off to sea! Don't let me see another child perish before these old eyes!"
"No," said Michael, turning round, "I will not disobey you; besides, I have not experience enough to be of any great use. Our brave pilots would help them, if help were possible."
"See, brother!" said James, "there lies the ship; she is beating on the Barnet-reef, sure enough; and yet the moon shines bright through the storm."
"Yes," said Michael; "and could they have got a pilot that knew the coast, they might have been saved. Look! they are putting out boats. See! There are two!"
"Where? where?" asked James: "the white flashing billows dazzle my eyes. I can see but one little black speck dancing among the waves."
"Oh, yes!" said Amy, "even I can see two; but they will never reach the shore. See, there goes down one of them!"
"No, no! I hope not," said James; "it is only hidden for a moment between the high waves."
"I tell you it is gone," said Amy. "Alas! I know that shocking sight too well?—Don't Iknowwhat it is to see a boat swallowed by the sea? Come in, boys, or I shall think I see your father again washed on shore at my feet."
"Go you in," said Michael; "but I will stay and see if indeed some one be thrown on shore; for we may give timely help."
As he spoke, he plainly discovered some one struggling with the waves at a little distance. The brothers hastened to the spot just as the man was thrown with violence on the sands by the huge breakers; they seized and dragged him out of the reach of the waves, and Amy ran out of the cottage to help them.
"Is he dead?" said she, fearfully.
"I am afraid," said Michael, "that the waves, in throwing him ashore, have beaten the breath out of him; but he was alive just now, for I saw him struggle with the breakers."
They carried the poor man into the cottage, and tried every means in their power to revive him; but Amy had nothing better than a little elder wine to give him. This she hastened to warm; and James ran to the town to borrow or buy a little brandy, and to get medical assistance. He soon procured the liquor; but the doctor was so busy attending other sufferers who had been washed ashore, that he could not leave them. James thought it best to return quickly with the spirits; and he had the pleasure to see the person they had saved sitting in the chimney-corner; and after he had taken the brandy which James had brought, he seemed considerably revived.
It was not till he was out of danger that the kind cottagers remarked that the dress and appearance of their guest were far above those of a common seaman. Amy had put him on some dry clothes, which were more comfortable (though very coarse) than his dripping garments; and on holding up the latter to dry, an elegant watch fell from one of the pockets. This she hung up before the fireplace; and soon afterwards the weary stranger retired to rest, the brothers having cheerfully given up their bed, and slept that night on a heap of old nets and sea-weed in the cow-shed.
Early in the morning, the doctor came to visit the shipwrecked stranger, and brought with him one of the sailors, who had got safe to land in the other boat. As soon as they entered the cottage, the seaman cast his eyes on the uniform that hung at the fire, and eagerly asked if the owner of it were alive. He was informed that he was alive, and likely to do well; but that he was then asleep.
"Then the storm has spared one of the bravest captains in his Majesty's fleet," said the sailor.
"What! is he a sea-captain?" asked Michael.
"Yes," answered the sailor: "our brave Captain Lucas."
A voice from the inner room now called, "Is that you, Tom?"
"Yes, your Honour," said the sailor, who immediately recognised the voice of Captain Lucas, his commander. Captain Lucas called the sailor to him, and asked, with much anxiety, how many of the ship's company were lost? "Only ten," said he; "the long-boat came safe ashore; and several of those in the boat with you were picked up by the good town's-people. We thought all night that you were lost: it would have been a bitter loss to us, Captain; for you are, indeed, the sailor's friend. It was a dreadful sight for us to see your boat go down; but your Honour knows that we all begged you to go in the long-boat, for we said the other could not live in such a sea."
"Well, Tom," said the Captain, "mine was but a single life; most of you were fathers and husbands. I am thankful that so many have been spared; and, as for myself, I could not have fallen into better hands. Mind and get a good Christmas dinner, you and your messmates, to cheer your poor hearts; I'll be at the expense: thank God! I have enough to spare a few comforts for my brave sailors, after all their sufferings."
Tom, having made a sailor's acknowledgment, hastened to the town to tell his messmates the joyful news, that their noble captain was saved.
Captain Lucas was so much bruised, that the doctor told him he must keep in bed for a day or two, and take the medicine which he would send him; but the captain seemed averse to physic, and thought that Amy's treacle-possets did him more good. He refused to be removed from the cottage, saying that he could not find better quarters anywhere. Michael attended him with the greatest care, and his sailors came daily to see him.
Michael was delighted with the frankness and noble bearing of the Captain, and with the affection his men bore him: and Captain Lucas was as much pleased with the honest and warm-hearted Michael. "You are the brave fellow," he said to him one day, "that pulled me ashore."
"I helped my brother James," said Michael.
"It is not always," said the Captain, "that shipwrecked men fall into such good hands; but it shall be the better for you, my lad."
Captain Lucas was not a man to keep his bed a long time for a few bruises. He was soon able to walk about; and his first care was to see the bodies of the drowned seamen decently buried. He attended their funeral, with all the surviving crew, and showed himself to be as pious as he was brave.
The night before he departed for London, he handsomely rewarded old Amy and her grandsons for their kindness to him; and as he put some broad pieces into Michael's hand, he said, "My young friend, I thought of giving you and your brother the watch and rings which I had about me when I was thrown ashore; but I think these pieces will be more serviceable: and I give them to you as much for your uncommon honesty as the humanity you have shown to me."
"Ah, Sir!" said Michael, laying the gold on the table, "you could do me a favour, that I should prize more than your little golden clock[12]and all the Caroluses[13]in the world."
"Ah!" said the Captain; "and what is that, my lad?"
"To persuade my grandmother to let me go to sea with you."
"Well, my brave boy, I should be glad to have you under my command. What do you say, Amy? You hear your grandson's wish. But, remember, that I will never repay your hospitality so basely, as to take him away without your consent."
Amy sighed. "Well, your Honour, as it is Michael's desire, and as he has wished it for a long time, I wont deny him; for I see his heart is wholly set on being a sailor. I should have thought that the lives he had just seen lost would have shown him his folly; but, as it is, I would rather he should go to sea with such a noble gentleman as yourself than with any one else."
Michael rejoiced that his grandmother had at last given her consent. "While I can have Captain Lucas for a commander, and King Charles for a master," said he, "I never will serve a Suffolk farmer."
The Captain was pleased with his spirit; but Michael's heart rather failed him, when he bade farewell, the next day, to his good grandmother and his twin-brother. "I know the Captain wont despise me for crying," he said to Tom; for "I sawhimweep when the poor sailors were buried."
"Ay! ay!" said Tom, "he has a tender heart, and he is the better for it, and so are you; and considering as how you are but a young one, I think you have borne it very well. Why I sometimes pipe a bit myself when I bid good b'ye to my Jane, and mother, and the little ones."
Captain Lucas was soon appointed to another ship; and Michael sent word to Amy and James, that he loved the life he had chosen better than ever, and that he would not change it for any other.
For a long time Michael was sadly missed at the cottage. James and Amy would look sorrowfully at one another, and shake their heads when they saw Michael's empty place at dinner, and the vacant corner where he used to put his three-legged stool by the chimney-side—and it was war-time. England was engaged in a severe struggle with the Dutch for naval pre-eminence in those days; and perhaps she never had to sustain a more arduous maritime contest; and Michael had many perils to encounter besides the danger of the stormy seas; but then he was very punctual in writing to his relatives—they were sure to have a letter from him at every opportunity; and Michael took a pride in sending home a considerable portion of his pay. Amy had so often heard that Michael was safe and well, that it was only after hearing of some sharp engagement that her heart ached for him. James was as diligent and industrious as ever, and kept his old place, and pleased his good master. Poor Amy had nourishing food and warm clothing, and more comforts in her old age than she had ever expected.