CHAPTER IX.
This was the memorable storm on the 28th of December, 1793. So tremendous became the hurricane before sunset of the day following its commencement, that the Babet became literally buried in the tremendous seas. She had lost her bowsprit, close to the stem, a great portion of her bulwarks, and all her boats, and just as night set in, a sea of terrific bulk and fury broke on her larboard bow; fortunately, it was expected, and the crew saved themselves from being washed overboard by timely precaution; but for several moments all thought the corvette was sinking, when a tremendous crash took place, and both main and fore masts went over the side, a furious sea striking her at the same time, fortunately driving her right round before the tempest.
Holding on by ropes stretched across the decks, Captain O’Loughlin and William Thornton called out to the crew to cut away the wreck with their axes, and two men were lashed at the wheel to keep her steady before the storm.
“Be St. Patrick, William,” said the Commander, giving himself a shake, “it was nearly up with us. We shall drive ashore before morning, I fear.”
“God forbid!” said our hero, thinking of the terrified and dismayed females fastened down below. “She is quite tight yet, the carpenter says; very little water in her.”
“So far so well,” said the Captain; “but all depends upon the distance we are from the land. This morning, you know, I calculated as the wind blew that we were about two-and-forty miles from the Spanish coast, in a direct line. As we are going now we shall run aground somewhere between Pralamos and Ampurias, for the force of the hurricane came from the east and south.”
A change was coming over the elements as he spoke; a furious deluge of rain, accompanied with continued peals of thunder took place. Gradually the wind began to lull, and before an hour was out, a ceaseless torrent of rain was the only remains of the tempest, excepting, of course, the sea, which for several hours would remain in a terribly disturbed state. The great danger to be apprehended in the cessation of the hurricane was the Babet’s getting broadside on to the sea, in her perfectly powerless state.
“We shall have the gale out from the Gulf of Lyons before morning,” observed Captain O’Loughlin to our hero. “We are in a nice mess. You may manage to get down below, however, and see how our poor passengers get on; they must be awfully frightened.”
“Sad loss, our masts,” remarked the midshipman, whilst some of the crew were removing the tarpauling over the companion.
“Faith, it’s just what I expected,” said O’Loughlin. “Look at the hasty way we were fitted out; and yet there was no help for it. In the confusion, we were over-masted, too, and the rigging quite new. I’ll venture to say many of the smaller craft foundered in the gale—the heaviest I ever remember.”
The corvette still plunged and rolled tremendously; but, fortunately, they contrived to keep her before the seas, which, owing to the continued and heavy rain, were falling fast.
William Thornton made his way into the principal cabin of the corvette. Notwithstanding everything had been secured in the best possible manner, many things had broken adrift and lay scattered over the floor; a swinging lamp threw a feeble gleam over the handsome saloon. The females were in their private cabins, but Madame Volney’s attendant, a woman who had lived with her many years, and was greatly attached to her, answered our hero’s summons at the door.
“Oh, mon Dieu, monsieur!” said Janette, “we thought every moment would be our last. Are we going into port, for we appear quieter?”
“We are running in for a port, Mrs. Janette,” said William Thornton, “and the hurricane has ceased; so tell the ladies they have nothing further to fear. In an hour or two the sea will be comparatively smooth.”
“Is there any one hurt on board, Mr. Thornton?” inquired madame; “we heard such a terrible crash during the night, as if the masts were being carried away.”
“I am happy to say, madam, that there was no one hurt; but I fear you all suffered a great deal by the rolling of the ship.”
“Oh! we fastened ourselves into our berths, and escaped suffering only from intense anxiety, which we are greatly obliged to you for relieving, Mr. Thornton.”
The midshipman returned upon deck, the rain still falling heavily, but there was not a breath of wind, though vivid flashes of lightning at intervals threw a bright gleam over the heaving waters, but unaccompanied by thunder.
“In an hour or so it will be daylight, William,” said Captain O’Loughlin. “We must try and get up some of the spare sails; luckily our spare spars have escaped. We may rig up a couple of jury-masts and get to Gibraltar with them, unless the gale sets in again. I have no faith in those sudden lulls.”
“We might make Barcelona or Carthagena, and get a rough fitting-up there,” said our hero; “it’s a deuced long run to Gibraltar.”
“Depends on how we get the wind, my lad. Port Mahon would be better if we could manage it. But, hark! do you hear that noise aloft; do you feel the change of temperature?”
“There’s the nor’-wester aloft, sir,” said the first mate, who was standing by the wheel; “it’s coming out of the Gulf of Lyons like thunder.”
“Be the powers of war! the gale is aloft, sure enough,” said Captain O’Loughlin; “it will strike us very shortly. Now my lads,” turning to the crew, who were splicing the main brace, “let us see what we can do to get up a jury-mast, just to keep us steady before the gale. Faith! here it is, and no mistake.”
As he spoke there was a loud roar like thunder, and the well-known and much dreaded nor’-wester of the Gulf of Lyons was upon them.
It could do them no harm at that time, so in a few moments they were running before a storm nearly equal in violence to the previous gale, and bitterly cold; but Captain O’Loughlin knew they would run out of that gale in less than twelve hours. The nor’-westers of the Gulf of Lyons rarely blow a hundred miles out from the gulf, getting less violent, and losing their bitter coldness, as they approach the African or Barbary coast.
As there was nothing to apprehend in running before the gale, and the dawn breaking, and the sky clearing to windward, Captain O’Loughlin insisted upon our hero retiring for a few hours’ rest, and getting rid of his soaking garments.
William Thornton felt little inclination to sleep, but he was quite willing to change his clothes, for he was soaked from head to foot. Nevertheless, as there might be plenty to do during the next twelve hours, he turned in, and before he was well aware of it, was sound asleep. He might have slept about three hours, when he was suddenly aroused by the loud boom of cannon. Jumping up, he was dressed in a few minutes, and hurried on deck, one or two more guns expediting his movements.
To his extreme surprise, he beheld his Commander and the whole crew of the Babet actively engaged dragging a couple of long twelve-pounders aft, and, looking in that direction, he beheld a craft of their own size, with only her lower mast standing, and, under her fore course, following them.
Captain O’Loughlin had rigged up a flag-staff, from which floated the flag of Old England. They had got up a jury-mast forward, and some of the crew were bending on a yard a spare topsail. There was not a cloud in the sky, the gale blowing with unmitigated violence, and a nor’-west sea rapidly rising, though a tremendous swell still ran in from the eastward.
“By all that’s lively, William,” said Captain O’Loughlin, “we are in for a brush with that fellow after us. He’s a privateer, I think; he was close-hauled till he made us out, and then he squared away after us. Now, my lads, steady! His metal is not nearly as heavy as ours; watch the rise,” and bang went the twelve-pounder cannonade.
The messenger went through the stranger’s fore course; what other damage it did they could not see; but, carrying so much canvas, their pursuer was coming up rapidly—he was then not more than half a mile astern.
The decks were now cleared, and every preparation made for action. In spite of their crippled state, they found they could work six of their guns well, and powder and shot were handed up in abundance. With their two cannonades they kept up a tolerably well-directed fire upon the Frenchman, whilst he, with his bow chasers, returned the compliment, but, as yet, without doing mischief.
The Babet was very shortly furnished with sail forward, under which she moved, it soon appeared, nearly as fast as the privateer—for such their pursuer was—and, as she yawed in the sea, they could see she was full of men.
A lucky shot from the Babet cut the slings of her fore yard, not being hung in chains, bringing it down with a crash upon her deck.
“Come, that’s a settler for you, Master Crapaud,” sung out the gunner; but immediately their pursuers set their main course without a reef, under which she tore through the water, and in less than half-an-hour it became very evident she would pour a broadside into them. She was a fine, handsome craft, apparently carrying sixteen guns, and well manned. She hoisted the privateer flag, and ranging up alongside, within pistol-shot, poured in a discharge of grape and canister from her eight-pounders; but, from the fury of the gale, and the tremendous swell, the iron shower passed harmless over the deck of the Babet.
“Now, my lads,” cried Captain O’Loughlin, “we must try and get rid of this troublesome leech, for if the wind lulls, which it will, the farther we draw to the southward, she will be too much for us. So bring over two more guns to this side, watch an opportunity when she heels over to port with the swell, and let her have a dose of round shot below her water-mark.”
“Aye, ay, sir,” said the gunner; “we’ll do our best to physic her.”
In so heavy a gale, and with such a sea running, Captain O’Loughlin knew that the privateer would not attempt to board him, as the destruction of both vessels would ensue; neither could he manœuvre the Babet in any other way whatever thanto let her go before the wind. If he attempted to get up his spars, he would expose his men to the musketry of the privateer, whose crew appeared to amount to more than one hundred and twenty. She rolled in the cross sea considerably more than the Babet, having less beam, and her lower masts and main and mizen yards standing.
The two ships were scarcely pistol-shot from each other; so, watching the opportunity, and the guns being skilfully pointed, the broadside was discharged right into the hull of the privateer, who, rolling over to port, left herself greatly exposed to the iron shower; as she came upright, she again discharged a broadside of grape upon the Babet, killing one man and wounding three, but not severely. William Thornton was standing anxiously watching the effect of their broadside; he could hear the shot hulling her, and could see that her bulwarks were knocked into splinters, and the next few minutes satisfied the crew of the Babet that their broadside had, as their Captain hoped, rid them of their dangerous enemy; for, after a very short time, she altered her course, bracing up on a wind, and heeling over exceedingly on the opposite tack. This was done evidently to keep her wounded side out of the water till they plugged the shot-holes, if they could. A loud cheer from the Babet’s crew testified their satisfaction.
“Be my conscience, William, I think our pills will injure our friend’s digestion; she’ll have enough to do to keep afloat. One or two of the balls struck very low, and the holes will be hard to get at.”
“Yes,” returned our hero; “I saw them strike her. We shall gain some hours, and in that time get up our jury-masts; this nor’-wester is only a squall after the deluge of rain. I was down with our poor passengers, who were terribly frightened by the firing; in truth, they have had a poor time of it since we started.”
“You may say that, William,” said the Captain; “it is to be hoped we have had the worst of it. I have seen land these last ten minutes away there to the south-west—Majorca or Ivica, no doubt.”
William Thornton looked in that direction, above the storm-tossed billows, and could distinctly discover the high land stretching away to the southward.
“It cannot be the mainland,” he observed, promptly, “for I can make out its termination. No doubt it is Ivica, the smallest of the islands.”
“Well, the sooner we get to work the better. You see our friend the privateer still keeps on the same tack, with reduced canvas.”
Going steadily before the gale, the Babet, excepting anoccasional roll, remained pretty steady, and there were tokens of the gale lulling; so all hands turned to, to get their jury-masts and yards up. The corvette was well supplied with everything in the shape of rigging and sails, an abundance of rope, and some fine spars. They worked unceasingly, speedily rigged a pair of spars, whilst the wind and the sea were rapidly falling. There was not a cloud to be seen—the sun shining as bright and glorious as in the early autumn, though the air was exceedingly keen.
Before sunset, Ivica was plainly to be seen, and, in the distance, the other islands; and so well and energetically did the crew work, that a main and mizen jury-mast were stepped and wedged, and before dark they could set sufficient canvas to permit them to alter their course, and draw off from the land, towards which they had been previously running.
During the evening, both the gale and the sea gradually fell; the night was fine and bright, and the air less cold. Before twelve on the following day, the Babet looked like a new-rigged craft, with reduced spars; and by working all day, and the weather continuing fine, she could set as much sail as a craft half her size; but, being a remarkably fast sailer, she went through the water at a very fair speed, and so satisfied became her commander with her rig, that he resolved to continue his voyage to England under it, giving up his previous intention of putting in to Gibraltar to refit.
Off the Cap de Gatt they had a calm of two days, with the weather warm, so that the females could enjoy air, and a little exercise. They had quite recovered their sea-sickness, and little Mabel, in anticipating her future meeting with her mother in England, was rapidly increasing in spirits.
She was sitting one beautifully fine evening, the last of the calm, beside William Thornton, gazing over the ship’s side at the long line of Spanish coast, not more than two leagues from them, on which the sun was shining brightly, and watching the numerous craft, becalmed, like themselves—some with their lofty latine yards and sails, lying in graceful folds, their crews plying their long sweeps, and creeping gradually along the coast, whilst lying within a mile of them were two Spanish gun-boats, or “guarda costa,” and, some three leagues seaward, two vessels, evidently frigates, but whether English or French they could not make out.
“Oh! how different this is, William,” exclaimed Mabel, “from the frightful storm of the last few days. How quiet and beautiful this blue sea looks! and how delightful to catch a glimpse of the land, which, do you know, we all thought we should never see again.”
“Ah, Mabel, I dare say you were terribly frightened,” remarkedthe midshipman, thinking it was very possible that the thin, almost haggard-looking little girl, with her quiet and wonderfully expressive eyes, with the brows so beautifully marked, might turn out a very lovely girl in a few years; “but tell me, dear, now that we have a quiet hour, and our handsome commander is so busy learning French from Mademoiselle Agatha——”
“Oh, yes,” interrupted Mabel, with a smile “if he is anxious to learn French, dear Agatha is quite as anxious to learn English, and the Captain is so quick. But what were you going to ask me, William, when I so thoughtlessly interrupted you?”
“Why, to tell me all you remember about your little self, and how you came to lose your poor brother, who was not a native of France, and was too young to be mixed up in the political parties which distracted, and still distract that unhappy country, France.”
“Ah!” replied Mabel, with a sigh, “I was younger than dear Julian, and yet they would have killed me but for good Monsieur Jean Plessis. When I was very young—too young to remember things well, only mamma has often spoken of that time—we were with mamma’s husband, at his château far away in France, near the sea coast, in Normandy, I think. That château was called Coulancourt, for mamma’s husband possessed other estates besides those near Lyons. Ah! I have heard mamma say we were very happy then. The Duke so loved mamma, and loved us; our own father could not have loved us more. I remember numbers of servants, and attendants, and chasseurs, and the great château of Coulancourt, with its great trees and lawn before it; but mamma said the troubles were coming over France, and the Duke was called to Paris, and we all went with him. Then, after a time, mamma was persuaded to go with us to Lyons, for Paris became dangerous for Royalists, and Lyons was then a great royal city.
“So we went to Lyons, and there we stayed till the whole country of France became disturbed, and then—ah! shall I ever forget mamma’s agony!—Monsieur Plessis arrived from Paris with the news of the good Duke’s death. Oh! how we all cried. My brother Julian was frantic, and wished to go to Paris; but Jean Plessis implored him to stay, telling him that his mother required all his care.
“Monsieur Plessis’ wife and little daughter Julia were at the château. Dear Julia was only two years older than I; but she was so sensible and so loving, she made me dote upon her, whilst mamma could not bear to be a moment without Madame Plessis.
“We were not long destined to remain in peace. Theterrible Collet d’Herbois came to the château. I do not know what he said or did, but he made mamma tremble, and Jean Plessis was away in Toulon, where he possessed some property; and before our protector returned, a party of furious Revolutionists, with this wicked D’Herbois at their head, surrounded the château, plundered it, drove all our domestics to flight, and carried us all prisoners into Lyons, and lodged us in a frightful prison. Oh! what we suffered from hunger, and cold, and want of every kind of necessary! Our cell was damp, and with very little light, and, to make things worse, they took Julian from us. Oh! that was a terrible day.
“Collet d’Herbois came every day, and once, showing my mamma a paper, said, ‘Sign this, and you and your children shall be released.’ ‘Never, wretch, never!’ exclaimed mamma, passionately; ‘I will die first!’ The cruel wretch stamped with fury, saying, ‘Die! yes, cursed brood of aristocrats, you shall die!’
“‘Oh, my child!’ my poor mamma would say, as I hung round her neck, ‘that monster wants to be my husband, and to be possessed of all the Duke’s lands. I care not for them; I offered him all. But to be his wife—oh, horror! rather welcome death. But when I think of you and Julian, my heart fails.’ From that hour,” concluded Mabel, “we never saw Julian again;” and the tears streamed from her eyes.
The midshipman pressed his little companion’s hand; he soothed her, and then a sudden thought arose that perhaps Julian might still be alive, and he inquired—
“Who told you, dear Mabel, that your brother was beheaded?”
“The horrid gaoler,” returned the little girl, with a shudder. “He came into the cell one morning, and, with a frightful laugh, said, ‘So the young aristocrat’s head is off, with fifty others. It was a fine sight.’ Mamma was in hysterics for hours.”
“And did no one else tell you but that brutal wretch?” again interrogated the midshipman.
“No, William; but as neither mamma nor Jean Plessis ever heard more of him, it must have been true; for the wicked Democrats cut off all the Royalists’ heads they could find in Lyons.”
“And yet, Mabel,” said our hero, “many circumstances might have occurred to save him. How were you and your mamma rescued?”
“Oh, we lingered a long, long time in that horrid prison, reduced in health, with filthy, bad food and cruel treatment, till at last it was resolved to spare no one in that ill-fated city, not even infants.
“Our savage gaoler at last came for us. ‘Come,’ said he, with a ferocious laugh, ‘you are going to enjoy the fresh air; you will see a grand sight.’”
“Inhuman ruffian!” interrupted William Thornton, passionately.
Mabel gazed up into the flushed face of the midshipman so earnestly, and with so affectionate an expression, as if she had done wrong in paining him, and he said—
“I was wrong, dear Mabel, to ask you to relate such painful scenes; the very mention of them inflames even me. But you got away from the wretches; God still watched over you.”
“Ah, yes, God did save us,” replied Mabel, “and sent Jean Plessis in time to rescue us. We were brought out, with hundreds of others, from our vile prison. Oh! how the sun dazzled us, after being so long in the dark cell without its blessed light! When we could look round, we saw the streets filled with a furious mob. We were forced to walk, and those with us said we were to be tied to trees and shot down by cannon; and the prisoners cried and sobbed, whilst the crowd laughed, and hooted, and jeered us, as aristocrats. Amidst these insults we were paraded through the streets till we came to a great square, all in ruins. The houses on all sides were tumbled down, and their furniture tossed about and strewn all over the space—the frightful wretch, Collet d’Herbois, had ordered the town to be blown up. I clung to the side of mamma, whose sweet face was turned towards heaven, as she prayed. Indeed, William, I did not think then of death, but of what mamma suffered. And dear mamma thought only of me.
“The horrid gaolers now put us by dozens in a cart. Mamma had her hands tied, but I lay in her arms, almost insensible, though I could feel her tears rolling down my face and neck, and could hear her sobbing, ‘Oh, God! spare my last and only one; I am resigned, but in mercy spare her!’ I think I was roused then, when I heard those words, and felt her lips pressed to mine, for I cried out, ‘No, no, where you go I go.’ Then there was a great and terrible shout from the multitude; the soldiers on horseback trampled on the crowd; shrieks and frightful cries filled the air; the cart we were in was surrounded and overturned; there was firing of guns, and then mamma and I were torn from the cart, mantles thrown over us, and we were hurried along without seeing or knowing anything. By and by—how long I cannot say—our eyes were uncovered—I was in mamma’s arms; we were in a boat, and Jean Plessis and another man, stripped of their coats, pulling strongly at the oars.
“We were going down the Rhone—we were saved! Weendured a great deal getting to Toulon, Jean Plessis’ native town, and the house he put us in there was his own; for his father, at one time, was very well off. You know all the rest, dear William; and now do you really think it possible my brother might have been saved? Surely Jean Plessis would have heard of him.”
“No, my dear Mabel, perhaps not; because your brother might have still remained in prison, or have been forced to join the Republican army as a soldier, like hundreds of others.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mabel, with enthusiasm, “what happiness would be in store for mamma, if Julian lives.”
“Do you remember the Duke, your stepfather, well?” questioned our hero.
“Yes; though for more than two years before his death he was absent from the château.”
“And what kind of a man was the Duke, Mabel?”
“Oh, a grand, tall gentleman, with such a kind, gentle look; but he was quite grey—oh, much older than mamma; he looked more like her father than her husband, and he was so kind to Julian and myself; I loved him as well as if he had been my own father.
“Won’t you, William, be rejoiced to see your father and mother, when we get to England?” asked Mabel, fixing her expressive eyes on the midshipman, who, for an instant, looked sad. Mabel saw the change in his handsome features at once, and, taking his hand in hers, said, softly——
“I fear I have asked a question that pains you; like me, perhaps, you have lost a parent?”
“I never had the blessing of seeing, to my remembrance, either father or mother,” returned William Thornton. “I was picked up at sea, in a boat, by the crew of a French frigate called the Surveillante.”
“What name did you mention, Master Thornton?” interrupted Madame Volney, who had approached the two young people unobserved; “I thought you mentioned a vessel I remember well.”
“I was telling Mabel, madame,” replied the midshipman “that I was picked up in a boat, when a child of perhaps two years old, by the crew of the Surveillante frigate. The vessel that my unfortunate parents were in, it is conjectured, had been run down in a gale by that vessel.”
“Mon Dieu! how strange and extraordinary,” returned Madame Volney, sitting down by the surprised young couple. “My brother was first-lieutenant of the Surveillante at that time, and often has he spoken to me, years afterwards, of that event, and of the child they picked up—the only living thing saved, as they thought. The Surveillante afterwards foughtthe English frigate the Quebec; and so greatly was the Surveillante injured, that she went ashore on a reef off Isle Dieu.”
A breeze of wind suddenly springing up, and taking them aback, put a stop to the conversation becoming so interesting to our hero; but Madame Volney said, as our hero proceeded to fulfil some duty, “We will talk of this again, Master Thornton, for I have something to say that may interest you.”