After waiting many weary days at the camp of the fugitive and deposed governor at Gwynn's Island, they had been separated from Desborough, and unceremoniously hustled on board the frigate Radnor, which was under orders for England. They had stopped long enough at Norfolk to witness Dunmore's savage and vindictive action in bombarding and burning that helpless town; and from that point Katharine had been enabled to send her letter to Seymour, through a friendly American spy, just before taking departure for their long voyage across the seas. The orders of the Radnor had been changed at the last moment, however, and she had been directed to go in pursuit of Jones and the Ranger, which it was currently reported had got to sea from the Delaware Bay, bound for Canada and the Newfoundland coast. No vessel being ready for England at that time, the two prisoners had been transferred, fortunately for them, to a small ship bound to the naval station at Barbadoes; and thence, after another weary dreary wait, had been sent on board his Britannic majesty's ship Yarmouth, Captain John Vincent, bound home for England. The first lieutenant of this ship happened to be a certain Patrick Michael Philip O'Neal Drummond, Lord Desborough, son and heir to the Earl of Desmond! He congratulated himself most heartily upon his good fortune.

Providence had, then, thrown a lover again at Katharine's feet. Not that there was anything unusual in that. She might not regard it in a providential light, however; but he, at least did so, and he had intended to improve the shining hours of what would be a long cruise, in the close association permitted by the confined limits of the ship, to make a final desperate effort to win the heart which had hitherto so entirely eluded him that he could not flatter himself that he had made the least impression upon it. His success during the first three or four days of the cruise had not been brilliant. She had been unaffectedly glad to see him apparently, and gentle and kind in her reception,—too kind, he thought, with the circumspection of a lover,—but that was all. To add to his trials, he soon found himself not without rivals nearer at home than Seymour. Judging by present results, Washington, if he had a few regiments of Katharines, could carry consternation to the whole British army! For the captors had, apparently, taken the oath of allegiance to the captured, and the whole ship's company, from that gruff old sailor Captain Vincent down through all the other officers to the impudent and important little midshipman, were her devoted slaves. Even Jack forward, usually entirely unresponsive to the doings aft on the quarterdeck, put on an extra flourish or so, and damning his eyes, after the manner of the unsophisticated sailorman, gazed appreciatively upon her beauty, envying those fortunate mortals privileged to radiate about her person. Vincent might be the captain, but Katharine was certainly the queen of the ship. Colonel Wilton, too, shone, not altogether by reflected lustre either; and the considerate officers had done everything possible to make him forget that he was a prisoner.

Early one afternoon in the beginning of February, the Yarmouth, being under all plain sail with the wind two or three points abaft the beam, was bowling along under a fresh breeze about a day's sail east of Martinique. The weather was perfect, and because of the low latitude, in spite of the winter season, there was no touch of sharpness in the air, which was warm and delightful. All the necessary drills and exercises having been concluded earlier in the day, the whole ship's company was enjoying a period of unusual relaxation and idleness. The men at the wheel, the lookouts kept constantly at the mastheads, the marines doing sentry duty, with the midshipmen of the watch and the officer of the deck busily pacing to and fro, were the only people, out of the six hundred and odd men who made up the ship's complement, who presented any appearance of activity whatever. The men of the watch on and the watch off, dinner being over, were sitting or lounging about in all sorts of easy attitudes,—some of them busy with their needles; others overhauling their clothes-bags, to which they had been given access that afternoon; others grouped about some more brilliant story-teller than the rest, eagerly drinking in the multifarious details of some exciting personal experience, or romantic adventure, or never-ending story of shipwreck or battle, or mystery—technically, yarns! Colonel Wilton was standing aft with Captain Vincent in the shadow of the spanker. Miss Wilton, with Chloe, her black maid, behind her chair, was sitting near the break of the poop-deck, looking forward, surrounded by several lieutenants; Desborough being at her right hand, of course, feeling and looking unusually gloomy and morose. One or two of the oldest and boldest midshipmen were also lingering on the outskirts of the group, as near to their divinity as they dared come in the presence of their superior officers. The conversation happening to turn, as it frequently did, upon the subject of the present war between England and the colonies engaged in rebellion against the paternal power, was unusually animated.



CHAPTER XXXIII

Two Proposals

"Oh, you know, Miss Wilton, if the colonies—" began one of the officers, vehemently.

"Pardon me, Mr. Hollins, that is hardly the correct term. The late colonies would be better," interrupted Katharine, with much spirit.

"Oh, well, you know, I am merely anticipating, of course; we 'll have them back fast enough, after while. Now, if they—"

"Pardon me again, sir, but that is another contention I can hardly admit. You 'll never have them back,—never, never!"

"Oh, come, Miss Wilton," said another, "you surely do not think the colonies—oh, well, the late colonies, if you will insist upon it—can maintain a fight with the power of Great Britain, for any length of time! Why, madam, the English spirit—"

"Well, sir, what else have we but the English spirit? What other blood runs in our veins, pray? Just as you love and prize your liberty, so too do we, and we will not be dominated and ruled over, even by our brothers. No, no, Mr. Beauchamp, or you, either, Mr. Hollins; it is no use. We are just as determined as you are; and there is but one way to win back the colonies, as you call them, to their allegiance."

"And how is that, pray?"

"Why, by depopulating them, overwhelming them, killing the people, and wasting the land. Only a war of extermination will serve your purpose."

"Well," said Hollins, doggedly, "if they must have it, they must—let it be extermination! The authority of the king and the power of Parliament must be upheld at all hazards."

"Ah, that is easy enough to say," replied Katharine, "but three millions of English-speaking liberty-loving people are not to be blotted out by a wave of the hand; they are not so easily exterminated, as you will find. Besides, it is easy to speak in general terms; but thousands and thousands are young and helpless, or old and feeble,—grandsires or women or children,—how about them? As long as there is a woman left or a child, your task is yet unfulfilled. Make a personal application of it; I am one of them. Do you wish to exterminate me, sir?" she said, looking up at him brilliantly, with her glorious brown eyes.

"Oh, you—you are different, of course," said the lieutenant, hesitatingly, not liking to face this intensely personal application of his intemperate remark.

"Not I! I am just like the rest—"

"Treason! I won't hear it," said Desborough, softly. "There are no others like you on earth."

"Just like the rest," she continued emphatically, unheeding the interruption, which the others had hardly caught, "and I will tell you that never again will that flag at the gaff there be the flag of America. You have lost us for good."

"Oh, don't say that. Make a personal exception of yourself at least, Miss Wilton, and give us room to hope a little."

"No, no," she laughed. "You have lost us all—me included."

There was a chorus of expostulation and argument immediately, but Miss Wilton was not to be overborne.

"Father!" she called quickly to the colonel, who, followed by the captain, at once joined the little group of officers. "These gentlemen seem to doubt me when I say their sometime colonies are gone for good. Won't you help me to state the point so they will understand it?"

"Gentlemen," said the old colonel, slowly and impressively, "the colonies were the most loyal and devoted portion of the king's dominion at one time. I have been up and down the length and breadth of them, I know the feeling. I was for years a soldier of the king myself,—with your fathers, young sirs,—and I can bear witness that no part of the kingdom responded with such alacrity to every legitimate demand upon it by the home government. Never did men so readily and willingly offer themselves and their goods for the service of the king. But it is all changed now. The change came slowly, but it came inevitably and surely, and you could no more change the present conditions than you could turn back the sun in its course. England has lost her colonies—"

"Her late colonies," corrected Katharine, softly.

"Yes, yes, of course, her late colonies, that is, beyond possibility of recovery. We will not be taxed without representation."

"But suppose that we gave you the representation for which you asked, colonel. How then? Would not there be a general return to allegiance in that event?" queried the captain.

"Sir," replied the colonel, proudly, "the child who has once learned to walk alone does not afterward go back to creeping and crawling, or stumbling along by the aid of his mother's hand. We have tasted our independence, enjoyed it, and now we mean to keep it."

"Splendid, sir! splendid, father!" cried the delighted Katharine. "There speaks the spirit of Runnymede, and Naseby, too, gentlemen!"

"Hush, hush, my child!" chided the colonel, half amusedly; "it is only the spirit of a plain man who has learned to love liberty by studying the history of his ancestry and his people."

"Ah, but, colonel, how are you going to get that liberty without fighting for it?" asked Beauchamp, with rash temerity. "Howe and Cornwallis, for instance, have been pursuing Washington for six months, and could never get near enough to fire a shot at him, so they say."

"Fight, sir, fight!" exclaimed the colonel, in astonished wrath; "why, God bless me, sir, I am willing to stand out now and show you how they can fight!"

But Miss Katharine sprang to her feet: "And Bunker Hill, Mr. Beauchamp, and Long Island!" she cried impetuously.

Beauchamp backed away precipitately from before her in great confusion, which invoked much mocking comment from the laughing officers round about him.

"Here is one time the English forces are routed by a rebel!" said Hollins.

"Yes," added Desborough, "but then Beauchamp is no worse off than the rest of us would be, if Miss Wilton were opposed to us."

"Well," continued another, coming to the rescue, "we won both of those engagements, you know, Miss Wilton, after all."

"Won! Who said anything about winning, sir? Anybody can win, if they have men enough or strength enough and money enough—we were talking about fighting, sir."

"But really, you know," went on Beauchamp, recovering, and returning to the charge, "Washington's army haven't fought since those days you speak of, and they must be wiped out of existence by now, I should suppose."

"Not if George Washington is still alive," interrupted the colonel, his anger at the inconsiderate officer having somewhat abated. "I know him well. I have known him from a boy,—met him first when I used to go shooting with Lord Fairfax out at Greenway Court. I knew his family; his brother Lawrence too, I was with him at Cartagena,—where I met your father, Lord Desborough, by the way,—and the world does not yet know the quality of that man. If he retreats, it is because he absolutely has to; and you will see, he will turn and strike Howe and Cornwallis some day such a blow as will make them reel. I should not wonder if he had done so already. 'T is six long weeks since we have heard any news from home. Trust me, gentlemen, the Americans will fight; and if there is a God of justice, they will win too."

"I would fight myself, had I but the opportunity," said Katharine, resolutely. "And there are hundreds of other women with the same feeling."

"Oh, Miss Wilton, you would find no enemies here to fight. We are all captives of your bow and spear now, and crave your mercy," said Desborough, meaningly.

"True, Mistress Katharine. I hardly know now who commands this ship, you or I!" said the captain, smiling at her.

"Alas, you do, Captain Vincent; were I the commander, we would be going that way," she replied, pointing off over the quarter, and gazing wistfully over the cool, sparkling water, the white-capped waves breaking beautifully away in every direction. "Oh, my poor, poor country, when shall I see you again?" she murmured; "when—"

"Sail ho!" floated down from the foremast head at this moment, and the idle ship awoke again.

"Where away?"

"Right ahead, sir."

Holmes and Beauchamp walked forward to get a look at the stranger, and the captain and the colonel stepped across to the weather side of the deck. Chloe was sent below to procure a wrap for her mistress, and Katharine was left alone for a few moments with Desborough. It was his first opportunity.

"Have you no curiosity as to the sail reported, Lieutenant Desborough?"

"No, Mistress Katharine, none whatever. I take no interest in anything but you. No, please don't go now," he went on in humble entreaty. "I wish to speak to you a moment. When you came aboard I hoped to see you often, to be with you alone—to win you—" His voice sank to a passionate whisper.

"My lord, my lord! it were best to go no further," she interrupted gravely. "'T is no use; you remember."

"Yes, yes, I remember everything,—everything about you, that is. I shut my eyes and feel the soft touch of your cool hand on my fevered head again, as when I had that bullet in my breast. Oh, it thrills me, maddens me! I 'd be wounded so again, could I but feel those hands once more— Listen to me, you must listen! It cannot hurt you to hear me, and I am sure one of the others will be back in a moment; you are never alone," he said, detaining her almost forcibly. "I love you; you must know that I do. What is that land, or any land, beside my love? You are my country! I can give you lands, title, rank, luxury— Be pitiful to me, Mistress Katharine. What can I do or say or promise? You shall grace the court of the king, and be at the same time queen of my heart," he went on impetuously, his soul in his eager whisper. She turned and walked over to the lee rail, whither he followed her.

"I 'd rather be in that land off yonder than be the king himself. I hate the king, and I could not love the enemy of my country! No, no," she replied, "it cannot be—it can never be!"

"Pshaw! Your country,—that's not the reason; you love him still," he went on jealously, "that sailor."

"Yes, 't is true; I love a sailor—you are not he."

"But he is dead! You left him lying there on the floor in the hall, you remember, and since then have heard nothing. He is surely dead."

"It is cruel of you to say it," she went on relentlessly, "but I shall love his memory then. No, 't is useless—I respect you, admire you, am grateful to you, but my heart is there!" and she pointed away again.

"Won't you let me try to win you?" he persisted. "Don't say me nay altogether, give me some hope. If he be dead, let me have a chance. Oh, Katharine Wilton, I would give up anything for—"

A midshipman touched him on the arm. "Captain wants to see first lieutenant, sir!" he said with a wooden, impassive face, saluting the while.

With a smothered expression of rage, Desborough sprang across the deck,—for such a summons is not to be disregarded for an instant; even love gives way to the captain, on shipboard at least. The little midshipman was a great favorite with Katharine, and, grateful for the interruption, she accordingly laid her hand lightly and affectionately on the shoulder of the Honorable Giles Montagu, aged thirteen, one of the youngest and smallest middies in the ship; but he stood very straight and rigid, the personification of dignity, and endeavored to look very manly indeed.

"Thank you, Mr. Montagu," she said, somewhat to his surprise.

"Don't mention it, nothing at all, madam—orders! Got to obey orders, you know."

Katharine laughed. "You dear sweet child!" she said, and suddenly stooped and kissed him. The Honorable Giles turned pale, then flushed violently and burst into unmanly tears.

"Why, what is it? Don't you like to have me kiss you?" she said, amazed.

"It is n't that, Miss Wilton. I 'd rather kiss you than—than anything; but you call me a boy, and treat me like a child, and—and I can't stand it. I—I 've challenged all the men in the steerage about you already," alluding to the other little fellows of like rank; "they call me a baby there, too, because I 'm so little and so young. But I 'll grow. And—I love you," he went on abruptly and determinedly, choking down his sobs and swallowing his tears, while fingering the handle of his dirk, and furtively rubbing his eyes with his other hand. "Oh, madam, if you would only wait until I got a frigate! Won't you? But no! You don't treat me like a man," he exclaimed bitterly, stamping his foot and turning away.

"Well, I never!" cried the astonished and abashed Katharine, completely overawed for the moment by this novel declaration. "What next?"

Truly, they made men out of boys early in those days. The next moment the hoarse cries of the boatswain and his mates, and the beating drums, called all hands to clear the ship for action and startled everybody into activity at once. The Honorable Giles, the manly if lachrymose midshipman, sprang forward to his station as rapidly as his small but sturdy legs could carry him.



CHAPTER XXXIV

Captain Vincent Mystified

While the big ship was rapidly and methodically being stripped for the possible emergency, the captain was engaged in busy conversation with the colonel. They had steadily drawn near the reported sail until the lookouts could plainly make out a small fleet of small ships. Never dreaming that they could be American ships, Captain Vincent had his ship prepared for action, more through the habitual wariness of an experienced sailor than from any premonition of an impending battle. But as the two forces drew near, the actions of the opposing fleet became suddenly suspicious; all but one of them tacked ship, and stood off to the northeast, in a compact group in close order, under all possible sail, though one, the smallest and a brig, it was noticed, lagged behind the rest of the group in a way which bespoke either very slow sailing qualities or deliberate purpose of delay. The remaining ship, the largest of them all, stood boldly on its original course. This latter, it was plain to see, was a small frigate, possibly a twenty-eight or a thirty-two. Taking into account the respective rates of speed, the frigate, whose course made a slight angle with that of the ship of the line, would probably cross the bows of the latter within range of her battery. None of the opposing vessels showed any flags as yet, and their movements completely mystified Captain Vincent.

"Certainly a most extraordinary performance going on there!" he said, after a long look through his glass, which he then handed to the colonel. "They show no flags, but I cannot conceive of their being anything but a squadron or a convoy of ours. What do you make them out, Colonel Wilton?"

Now, the colonel was morally certain that they were Americans, or, at least, that the first and nearest one was an American ship. He had been one of the naval committee which had taken charge of the building of the men-of-war ordered by Congress in '75; he had seen the Randolph frequently on the ways and after she was launched, and was entirely familiar with her lines. Perhaps the wish also was father to the thought, for the old soldier was not sufficiently versed in nautical affairs to detect at that distance the great disparity in force between the two ships, to which for the moment he gave no thought, or he would not have entertained hopes for a release from confinement by recapture,—a patent impossibility to a seaman. So he answered the captain evasively, returning the glass and pleading his ignorance of nautical matters to excuse his indefinite opinion.

"It must be the Carrysford, with Hythe's squadron; she is a thirty-two. But why they should act this way, I cannot see. He must know what we are now, as there are no ships of our size in these waters, except our own, and why should he send the rest of them off there? They are leaving us pretty fast, except that brig. Now, if it were a colonial convoy, I should say that this frigate was going to engage us in the hope of so crippling us as to effect the escape of the rest; but I hardly think that your men are up to that yet."

"Think not?" said the colonel indifferently, violently repressing an inclination to strike him. "It may be as you say, Captain Vincent; still, I think we are up to almost anything that you are."

"Oh, colonel," laughed the captain, good-naturedly, "you are not going to compare the little colonial forces with his majesty's navy, are you! Now, I am morally certain that is a king's ship. See the beautiful set of her sails, the enormous spread of the yards; notice how trim and taut her rigging and running gear stand out, and then, too, see how smartly she is handled. Only English ships are thus. Hythe is a sailor, every inch of him," he went on in genuine admiration for the approaching vessel. "See! He has the weather gauge of us now, or will have. Not that it matters anything. We could afford to let him have it even if he were an enemy; but what he means by this sort of performance, I don't understand. However, we shall know in half an hour at least."

"Well, sir?" he said, turning toward Lieutenant Desborough, who at that moment stepped on the poop in fighting uniform, sword in hand.

"Ship's ready for action, sir!"

"Very good. Keep the people at their quarters, and stand on as we are. Ah, Mr. Montagu, will you step below and fetch me my sword out of my cabin. What do you think of her, Desborough?"

"We think she is an American, sir," said Desborough.

"Oh, you do, do you? Well, I think she is one of ours. No American would dare to lead down on us in that way! We can blow him out of the water with a broadside or two, you know, but we 'll give him a hint all the same. Fire a gun there, to leeward, and hoist our colors."

As the smoke rolled away along the water, the stops were broken, and there flew out from each masthead the splendid English flag. It was answered soon afterward by a small English flag at the gaff of the approaching ship, which apparently mystified the captain more than ever, though it confirmed him in his previous opinion.

"Oh, father," whispered Katharine, clinging to the colonel, "what do you think it is? See that English flag!"

"Kate, I 'm morally sure that it is an American ship; it is just the plan and size of those ordered by Congress in '75. One of those ships should be in commission by now. If I am right, this should be the Randolph. I saw her a dozen times in Philadelphia; and if that's not she, I shall never pretend to know a ship again."

"But did you hear what Captain Vincent said?" continued Katharine; "how many guns would the Randolph carry?"

"About forty, and most of them small ones at best," answered the colonel, with a sigh.

The two ships were much nearer now, and their disparity in force was apparent even to the most unskilful eye.

"The little ship can't fight this great one, father, can it?"

"No, my dear; that is, not with any chance of success. But I fear—or hope, rather—that they mean to engage us, and sacrifice themselves in order not to allow us to capture the little fleet, probably prizes, off yonder. The man who commands her is a hero, certainly."

"Just what Mr. Seymour would do. Oh, if it were he!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, her eyes filling with tears at the possibility.

"Well, it may be, of course. He was certain to be posted captain soon, and 'tis like him truly. But, Kate, the ships are drawing nearer every moment. You must go below in case of action, my dear."

"Yes, Miss Wilton," said Desborough, who had at that moment approached them, looking very handsome, having heard the last words of the colonel; "we have arranged a safe place for you and your maid, in the cable tiers, way below the water-line, and out of the way of shot, though I hardly expect much of it from that fellow. Will you allow me to conduct you there? Perhaps you too, colonel, would be safer if you would—"

"Pardon me, sir, unless force is used, I shall remain on deck. The idea of me, sir—skulking in the hold during an action! Why, sir,—"

"And the idea of me, either, doing the same thing!" said Katharine defiantly, in a ringing voice in which there was a clear echo of her father's determination.

Both men looked at her smiling.

"Oh, you are different, Miss Wilton," said Desborough.

"No use, Katharine: you must go," added her father.

"Oh, please!"

"My daughter—"

"Oh, father, let me stay just a little longer—there is no danger yet. Take Chloe down, if you will, Mr. Desborough, and have a place ready for me. I 'll go down when the battle begins—indeed I will, father!" she continued entreatingly.

"Well," said the colonel, uncertainly, "let her stay a little longer, my lord."

"Very well, sir," replied Desborough, bowing and turning forward.

"Here, you Jack, take this girl below and stow her away in the cable tiers by the main hatch," he said, pointing to Chloe, who was led unresistingly away, her teeth chattering with undefined but none the less overwhelming terror. The colonel stepped forward beside Captain Vincent, and Desborough descended to the main-deck to superintend the fighting of the batteries, while Katharine, grateful for the respite, and determined not to go below at all, stepped aft in the shelter of the rail, her heart already beating madly, as the two ships approached each other in silence.



CHAPTER XXXV

Bentley Says Good-by

The men on the Randolph were in excellent spirits, and as they drew nearer and nearer became more and more anxious for the fray.

"She's a big one, ain't she?" said one young seaman, glancing over a gun through a port-hole forward; "but we ain't afraid of her, mates. We 'll just dance up and slap her in the face with this, and then turn around and slap her with t' other side," laying his hand at the time on one of the long eighteens which constituted the main battery of the frigate.

"Yes, and then what will she do to us? Blow us into splinters with a broadside, youngster! Not as I particularly care, so we have a chance to get a few good licks at her with these old barkers," said an older man, pointing, like the first, to a gun.

"That's the talk, men," said Seymour, who was making a tour of inspection through the ship in person, and who had stopped before the gun and heard the conversation. "Before she sinks us we will give it to her hard. I can depend upon you, I know."

"Yes, yes, your honor."

"Ay, ay, sir—"

"We 's all right, sir—"

"We 's with you, your honor—" came in a quick, strong chorus from the rough-and-ready men, and then some one called for three cheers for Captain Seymour, and they were given with such a will that the oak decks echoed and re-echoed again and again.

"Pass the word to serve out a tot of grog to each man; let them splice the main-brace once more before they die," said Seymour, grimly, amid a chorus of approving murmurs from the sailors, as he walked slowly along the lines, greeting men here and there with plain, bluff words of cheer, which brought smiles of pleasure to their stern, weather-beaten faces.

"Now, ain't he a beauty?" whispered the captain of number two gun to his second. "Blow me if 't ain't a pleasure to serve under sich a officer, and to die for him, too! Here is to a speedy fight and lots of damage to the Britisher," he cried loudly, lifting his pannikin of rum and water to his lips, amid a further chorus of approval.

Old Bentley was standing on the forecastle forward, looking earnestly at the approaching ship, when Seymour came up to him. The rest of the men, mindful of the peculiar relationship between the two, instinctively drew back a little, leaving them alone.

"Well, Bentley, our work is cut out for us there."

"Ay, Captain Seymour. I 'm thinking that this cruise will end right here for this ship—unless you strike, sir."

"Strike! Do you advise me to do so, then?"

"God forbid! Except it be with shot and these," said the old man, lifting an enormous cutlass, ground to a razor edge, which he had specially made for his own personal use in battle. "No, no; we 've got to fight him till he 's so damaged that he can't get at the rest. Do you see, sir, how the brig lags behind them?" he went on, pointing out toward the slowly escaping squadron. "The boy's got her luffed up so she makes no headway at all!"

"I know it. I have signalled to him twice to close with the rest—he can sail two feet to their one; but it is no use,—he pays no attention. He should n't have been given so responsible a command until he learned to obey orders," said Seymour, frowning.

"Let the boy alone, Master John; he 'll do all right," said Bentley; "he's the makings of a good sailorman and a fine officer in him. I 've watched him."

"Ha! there goes a shot from the liner," cried Seymour, as a puff of smoke broke out from the lee side followed by the dull boom of a cannon over the water, and then the flags rippled bravely out from the mastheads. "Well, we did not need that sort of an introduction. Aft there!" cried the captain, with his powerful voice.

"Sir."

"Show a British flag at the gaff. That will puzzle him for a while longer. Well, old friend, I must go aft. It's likely we won't both of us come out of this little affair alive, so good-by, and God bless you. You 've been a good friend to me, Bentley, ever since I was a child, and I doubt I 've requited you ill enough," he said, reaching forth his hand. The old sailor shifted his cutlass into his left hand, took off his hat, and grasped Seymour's hand with his own mighty palm.

"Ay, ever since you were a boy; and a properer sailor and a better officer don't walk the deck, if I do say it myself, as I 've had a hand in the making of you. But what you say is true, sir: we 'll probably most all of us go to Davy Jones' locker this trip; but we could n't go in a better way, and we won't go alone. God Almighty bless you, sir! I—" said the old seaman, breaking off suddenly and looking wistfully at the young man he loved, who, understanding it all, returned his gaze, wrung his hand, and then turned and sprang aft without another word.

The ships were rapidly closing, when Seymour's keen eye detected a dash of color and a bit of fluttering drapery on the poop of the line-of-battle ship. Wondering, he examined it through his glass.

"Why! 't is a woman," he exclaimed. Something familiar in the appearance made his heart give a sudden throb, but he put away the idea which came to him as preposterous; and then stepping forward to the break of the poop, he called out,—

"My lads, there is a woman on yon ship, on the poop, way aft. We don't fight with women; have a care, therefore, that none of you take deliberate aim at her, and spare that part of the deck where she stands in the fight, if you can. Pass the word along."

"Well, I 'm blessed," said one old gun captain, sotto voce, "be they come out against us with wimmen!"

The Randolph had the weather-gage of the Yarmouth by this time; and Seymour shifted his helm slightly, rounded in his braces a little, and ran down with the wind a little free and on a line parallel to the course of his enemy, but going in a different direction. He lifted the glass again to his eye, and looked long and earnestly at the woman's figure half hidden by the rail on the ship. Was it—could it be—indeed she? Was fate bringing them into opposition again? It was not possible. Trembling violently, he lifted the glass for a further investigation, when an officer, trumpet in hand, sprang upon the rail of the Yarmouth forward and hailed.



CHAPTER XXXVI

The Last of the Randolph

"Pass the word quietly," said Seymour, rapidly, to one of his young aids, "that when I say, 'Stand by to back the maintopsail,' the guns are to be fired. Bid the gun captains to train on the port-holes of the second tier of guns. Mind, no order to fire will be given except the words, 'Stand by to back the maintopsail.' The men are to fire at the word 'topsail.' Do you understand? Tell the division officers to hold up their hands, as a sign that they understand, as you pass along, so that I can see them. Lively now! Quartermaster, standby to haul down that flag and show our colors at the first shot."

The frigate was now rapidly drawing near the ship of the line, until, at the moment the officer hailed, the two ships were nearly alongside of each other. The awful disparity between their sizes was now painfully apparent.

"Ship ahoy! Ahoy the frigate!" came down a second time in long hollow tones through the trumpet from the officer balancing himself on the Yarmouth's rail by holding on to a back-stay. "Why don't you answer?"

"Ahoy the ship!" replied Seymour at last through his own trumpet. "What ship is that?"

"His Britannic majesty's ship of the line, Yarmouth, Captain Vincent. Who are you? Answer, or I will fire!"

The flying boom of the Randolph was just pointing past the Yarmouth's quarter, and the two ships were abreast each other; now, if ever, was the time for action.

"This is the American Continental ship, Randolph, Captain Seymour," cried the latter, through the trumpet, in a voice heard in every part of the ship of the line.

At least two hearts in the Yarmouth were powerfully affected by that announcement. Katharine's leaped within her bosom at the sound of her lover's voice, and beat madly while she revelled in thought in his proximity; and then as she noticed again the fearful odds with which he was apparently about to contend, her heart sank into the depths once more. In one second she thrilled with pride, quivered with love, trembled with despair. He was there—he was hers—he would be killed! She gripped the rail hard and clenched her teeth to keep from screaming aloud his name, while her gaze strained out upon his handsome figure. Pride, love, death,—an epitome of human life in that fleeting moment,—all were hers!

On the main-deck of the frigate the name carried consternation to Lieutenant Lord Desborough. So Seymour was alive again! Was that the end of my lord's chance? No. Joy! The rebel was under the guns of the battle-ship! Never, vowed the lieutenant, should guns be better served than those under his command. Unless the man surrendered, he was doomed. So, he spoke eagerly to his men, bidding them take good aim and waste no shot, never doubting the inevitable issue. These thoughts took but a moment, however. Beauchamp, who had done the talking, now stepped aft to Captain Vincent's side, and replied to Seymour's hail by calling out,—

"Do you strike, sir?"

"Yes, yes, of course; that's what we came down here for. We'll strike fast enough," was the answer.

A broad smile lighted up Captain Vincent's face; he turned to the colonel, laughing, and said with a scarcely veiled sneer,—

"I told you they were not up to it. The cad! he might have fired one shot at least for the honor of his flag, don't you see?"

The colonel with a sinking heart could not see at all. Cowardice in Seymour, in any officer, was a thing he could not understand. The world turned black before Katharine. What! strike without a blow! Was this her hero? Rather death than a coward! In spite of her faith in her lover, as she heard what appeared to be a pusillanimous offer of surrender, Desborough's chances took a sudden bound upward, while that gentleman cursed the cowardice of his enemy and rival, which would deprive him of a pleasing opportunity of blowing him out of the water. Most of the men at the different guns relaxed their eager watchfulness, while sneers and jeers at the "Yankee" went up on all sides.

"Heave to, then," continued Beauchamp, peremptorily and with much disgust, "and send a boat aboard!"

"Ay, ay, sir!"

Oh, it was true, then; he was going to surrender tamely without—

"Stand by!" there was a note of preparation in the words in spite of Seymour's effort to give them the ordinary intonation of a commonplace order,—a note which had so much meaning to Katharine's sensitive ear that her heart stopped its beating for a moment as she waited for the next word. It came with a roar of defiance. "Back the maintopsail!" But the braces were kept fast and the unexpected happened. In an instant sheets of flame shot out from the muzzles of the black guns of the Randolph, which were immediately wreathed and shrouded in clouds of smoke. At the moment of command Seymour had quickly ordered the helm shifted suddenly, and the Randolph had swung round so that she lay at a broad angle off the quarter of the Yarmouth. The thunderous roar of the heavy guns at short range was immediately followed by the crashing of timber, as the heavy shot took deadly effect, amid the cheers and yells and curses and groans and shrieks of the wounded and startled men on the liner, while three hearty cheers rang out from the Randolph.

The advantage of the first blow in the grim game, the unequal combat, was with the little one.

"How now, captain!" shouted the colonel, in high exultation. "Won't fight, eh! What do you call this?"

"Fire! fire! Let him have it, men, and be damned to you! The man 's a hero; 't was cleverly done," roared the captain, excitedly. "I retract. Give it to him, boys! Give it to the impudent rebel!" he roared.

Katharine, forgot by every one in the breathless excitement of the past few moments, bowed her head on her hands on the rail, and breathed a prayer of thankfulness, oblivious of everything but that her lover had proved himself worthy the devotion her heart so ungrudgingly extended him. There was great confusion on board the Yarmouth from this sudden and unexpected discharge, which, delivered at short range, had done no little execution on the crowded ship; but the officers rallied their men speedily with cool words of encouragement.

"Steady, men, steady."

"Give it back to them."

"Look sharp now."

"Aim! Fire!"

And the forty-odd heavy guns roared out in answer to the determined attack. The effect of such a broadside at close range would have been frightful, had not the Randolph drawn so far ahead, and her course been so changed, that a large part of it passed harmlessly astern of her. One gun, however, found its target, and that was one aimed and fired by the hand of Lord Desborough himself: a heavy shot, a thirty-two, from one of the massive lower-deck guns of the Yarmouth, which the pleasant weather permitted them to use effectively, came through one of the after gun-ports of the Randolph, and swept away the line of men on the port side of the gun. Some of the other shot did slight damage also among the spars and gear, and several of the crew were killed or wounded in different parts of the ship; but the Randolph was practically unharmed, and standing boldly down to cross the stern of the Yarmouth to rake her. But the English captain was a seaman, every inch of him, and his ship could not have been better handled; divining his bold little antagonist's purpose, the Yarmouth's helm was put up at once, and in the smoke she fell off and came before the wind almost as rapidly as did the Randolph, her promptness frustrating the endeavor, as Seymour was only able to make an ineffectual effort to rake her, as she flew round on her heels. The starboard battery of the Yarmouth had been manned as she fell off, and the port battery of the Randolph was rapidly reloaded again. The manoeuvre had given the Englishmen the weather-gage once more, the two ships now having the wind on the port quarter. The two batteries were discharged simultaneously, and now began a running fight of near an hour's duration.

Seymour was everywhere. Up and down the deck he walked, helping and sustaining his men, building up new gun's crews out of the shattered remains of decimated groups of men, lending a hand himself on a tackle on occasion; cool, calm, unwearied, unremitting, determined, he desperately fought his ship as few vessels were ever fought before or since, imbuing, by his presence and example and word, his men with his own unquailing spirit, until they died as uncomplainingly and as nobly as did those prototypes of heroes,—another three hundred in the pass at Thermopylae!

The guns were served on the Randolph with the desperate rapidity of men who, awfully pressed for time, had abandoned hope and only fought to cripple and delay before they were silenced; those on the Yarmouth, on the contrary, were fired with much more deliberation, and did dreadful execution. The different guns were disabled on the Randolph by heavy shot; adjacent ports were knocked into one, the sides shattered, boats smashed, rails knocked to pieces, all of the weather-shrouds cut, the mizzenmast carried away under the top, and the wreck fell into the sea,—fortunately, on the lee side, the little body of men in the top going to a sudden death with the rest. The decks were slippery with blood and ploughed with plunging shot, which the superior height of the Yarmouth permitted to be fired with depressed guns from an elevation. Solid shot from the heavy main-deck batteries swept through and through the devoted frigate; half the Randolph's guns were useless because of the lack of men to serve them; the cockpit overflowed with the wounded; the surgeon and his mates, covered with blood, worked like butchers, in the steerage and finally in the ward room; dead and dying men lay where they fell; there were no hands to spare to take them below, no place in which they could lie with safety, no immunity from the searching hail which drove through every part of the doomed ship. Still the men, cheered and encouraged by their officers, stood to their guns and fought on. Presently the foretopmast went by the board also, as the long moments dragged along, Seymour was now lying on the quarter-deck, a bullet having broken his leg, another having made a flesh-wound in his arm; he had refused to go below to have his wounds dressed, and one of the midshipmen was kneeling by his side, applying such unskilful bandages as he might to the two bleeding wounds. Nason had been sent for, and was in charge, under Seymour's direction. That young man, all his nervousness gone, was most ably seconding his dauntless captain.

The two ships were covered with smoke. It was impossible to tell on one what was happening on the other; but the steady persistence with which the Randolph clung to her big enemy had its effect on the Yarmouth also, and the well-delivered fire did not allow that vessel any immunity. In fact, while nothing like that on the frigate, the damage was so great, and so many men had fallen, that Captain Vincent determined to end the conflict at once by boarding the frigate. The necessary orders were given, and a strong party of boarders was called away and mustered on the forecastle, headed by Beauchamp and Hollins; among the number were little Montagu, with other midshipmen. Taking advantage of the smoke and of the weather-gage, the Yarmouth was suddenly headed for the Randolph. As the enormous bows of the line-of-battle ship came slowly shoving out of the smoke, towering above them, covered with men, cutlass or boarding pike in hand, Seymour discerned at once the purpose of the manoeuvre. Raising himself upon his elbow to better direct the movement,—

"All hands repel boarders!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the ship as powerfully as ever.

This was an unusual command, as it completely deprived the guns of their crews; but he rightly judged that it would take all the men they could muster to repel the coming attack, and none but the main-deck guns of the Yarmouth would or could be fired, for fear of hitting their own men in the melee on the deck. The Randolph was a wreck below, at best; but while anything held together above her plank shears, she would be fought. The men had reached that desperate condition when they ceased to think of odds, and like maddened beasts fought and raved and swore in the frenzy of the combat. The thrice-decimated crew sprang aft, rallying in the gangway to meet the shock, Nason at their head, followed close by old Bentley, still unwounded. As the bow of the Yarmouth struck the Randolph with a crash, one or two wounded men, unable to take part in repelling the boarders but still able to move, who had remained beside the guns, exerted the remaining strength they possessed to discharge such of the pieces as bore, in long raking shots, through the bow of the liner; it was the last sound from their hot muzzles.

The Yarmouth struck the Randolph just forward of the mainmast; the men, swarming in dense masses on the rail and hanging over the bowsprit ready to leap, dropped on her deck at once with loud cheers. A sharp volley from the few marines left on the frigate checked them for a moment,—nobody noticing at the time that the Honorable Giles had fallen in a limp heap back from the rail upon his own deck, the blood staining his curly head; but they gathered themselves together at once, and, gallantly led, sprang aft, handling their pistols and pikes and waving their cutlasses. Nason was shot in a moment by Hollins' pistol, Beauchamp was cut in two by a tremendous sweep of the arm of the mighty Bentley, and the combat became at once general. Slowly but surely the Americans were pressed back; the gangways were cleared; the quarter-deck was gained; one by one the brave defenders had fallen. The battle was about over when Seymour noticed a man running out in the foreyard of the Yarmouth with a hand-grenade. He raised his pistol and fired; the man fell; but another resolutely started to follow him.

Bentley and a few other men, and one or two officers and a midshipman, were all who were able to bear arms now.

"Good-by, Mr. Seymour," cried Bentley, waving his hand and setting his back against the rail nearest to the Yarmouth, which had slowly swung parallel to the Randolph and had been lashed there. The old man was covered with blood from two or three wounds, but still undaunted. Two or three men made a rush at him; but he held them at bay, no man caring to come within sweep of that mighty arm which had already done so much, when a bullet from above struck him, and he fell over backward on the rail mortally wounded.

Seymour raised his remaining pistol and fired it at the second man, who had nearly reached the foreyard arm; less successful this time, he missed the man, who threw his grenade down the hatchway. Seymour fainted from loss of blood.

"Back, men! back to the ship, all you Yarmouths!" cried Captain Vincent, as he saw the lighted grenade, which exploded and ignited a little heap of cartridges left by a dead powder-boy before the magazine. Alas! there was no one there to check or stop the flames. The English sailors sprang back and up the sides and through the ports of their ship with frantic haste; the lashings were being rapidly cut by them, and the braces handled.

"Come aboard, men, while you can," cried Captain Vincent to the Americans. "Your ship 's afire; you can do no more; you 'll blow up in a moment!"

The little handful of Americans were left alone on their ship. The only officer still standing lifted his sword and shook it impotently at the Yarmouth in reply; the rest did not stir. The smoke of battle had now settled away, and the whole ghastly scene was revealed. A woman's cry rang out fraught with agony,—"Seymour, Seymour!" and again was her cry unheeded; her lover could not hear. She cried again; and then, with a frightful roar and crash, the Randolph blew up.



CHAPTER XXXVII

For Love of Country

The force of the explosion occurring so near to the line-of-battle ship drove her over with irresistible power upon her beam-ends until she buried her port main-deck guns under water; her time was not yet come, however, for, after a trembling movement of sickening uncertainty, she righted herself, slowly at first, but finally with a mighty roll and rush as if on a tidal wave. For a few seconds the air was filled with pieces of wreck, arms, spars, bodies, many of which fell on the Yarmouth. The horrified spectators saw the two broken halves of the ill-fated frigate gradually disappearing beneath the heaving sea, sucking down in their inexorable vortex most of the bodies of those, alive or dead, who floated near. The fire had come in broad sheets through the portholes of the main-deck guns of the ship from the explosion, driving the men from their stations, and, by heating the iron masses or igniting the priming, caused sudden and wild discharges to add their quota of confusion to the awful scene. Pieces of burning wreck had also fallen in the tops, or upon the sails, or lodged in the standing rigging, full of tar as usual, and dry and inflammable to the last degree. The Yarmouth, therefore, was in serious danger,—more so than in any other period of the action,—her little antagonist having inflicted the most damaging blow with the last gasp, as it were; for little columns of flame and smoke began to rise ominously in a dozen places. Then was manifested the splendid discipline for which British ships were famous the world over. Rapidly and with unerring skill and coolness the proper orders were given, and the tired men were set to work desperately fighting once more to check and put out the fire. Long and hard was the struggle, the issue much in doubt; but in the end the efforts of her crew were crowned with merited success, and their ship was eventually saved from the dangerous conflagration which had menaced her with ruin, not less complete and disastrous than had befallen the frigate.

While all this was being done, a little scene took place upon the quarter-deck which was worthy of notice. Something heavy and solid, thrown upward by the tremendous force of the discharge, struck the rail with a mighty crash at the moment of the explosion, just at the point where Katharine, wide-eyed, petrified with horror, after that one vivid glance in which she apparently saw her lover dead on his own quarter-deck beneath her, stood clinging rigidly to the bulwarks as if paralyzed. It was the body of a man; instinctively she threw out her strong young arm and saved it from falling again into the sea on the return roll of the ship. One or two of the seamen standing by came to her assistance, and the body was dragged on board and laid on the deck at her feet. Something familiar in the figure moved Katharine to a further examination. She knelt down and wiped the blood and smoke and dust from the face of the prostrate man, and recognized him at once. It was old Bentley, desperately wounded, his clothes soaked with blood from several severe wounds, and apparently dying fast, but still breathing. A small tightly rolled up ball of bunting was lying near her on the deck; it was a flag from the Randolph, which had been blown there by the force of the explosion. She quickly picked it up and pillowed the head of the unconscious man upon it. Then she ran below to her cabin, coming back in a moment with water and a cordial, with which she bathed the head and wiped the lips of the dying man. The fires were all forward, and, the wind being aft, the danger was in the fore part of the ship; no one therefore paid the least attention to her. There was, in fact, save the captain and one or two midshipmen, no one else on the poop-deck except her father, who like herself had been overwhelmed by the sudden and awful ending of the battle. Being without anything to do, the colonel, who had been watching the men fight with the fire, happened to look aft for a moment and saw his daughter by the side of the prostrate man. He stepped over to her at once.

"Katharine, Katharine," he said to her in a tone of stern reproof and surprise, not as he usually spoke to her, "you here! 'T is no place for women. When did you come from below?"

"I've not been below at all, father," she replied, looking up at him with a white, stricken face which troubled his loving heart.

"Do you mean to tell me that you have been on deck during the action?"

"Yes, father, right here. Do you not understand that it was Mr. Seymour's ship—I could not go away!"

"By heavens! Think of it! And I forgot you completely— The fault was mine, how could I have allowed it?" he continued in great agitation.

"Never mind, father; I could not have gone below in any case. Do you think he—Mr. Seymour—can be yet alive?" she asked, still cherishing a faint hope.

The colonel shook his head gloomily, and then stooping down and looking at the prostrate form of the man on the deck, he asked,—

"But who is this you have here?"

The man opened his eyes at this moment and looked up vacantly.

"William Bentley, sir," he said in a hoarse whisper, as if in answer to the question; and then making a vain effort to raise his hand to his head, he went on half-mechanically, "bosun of the Randolph, sir. Come aboard!"

"Merciful Powers, it is old Bentley!" cried the colonel. "Can anything be done for you, my man? How is it with you?"

Katharine poured a little more of the cordial down his throat, which gave him a fictitious strength for a moment, and he answered in a little stronger voice, with a glance of recognition and wonder,—

"The colonel and the young miss! we thought you dead in the wreck of the Radnor. He will be glad;" and then after a pause recollection came to him. "Oh, God!" he murmured, "Mr. Seymour!"

"What of him? Speak!" cried Katharine, in agony.

"Gone with the rest," he replied with an effort "'T was a good fight, though. The other ships,—where are they?"

"Escaped," answered the colonel; "we are too much cut up to pursue."

"Why did you do it?" moaned Katharine, thinking of Seymour's attack on the ship of the line.

The old man did not heed the question; his eyes closed. He was still a moment, and then he opened his eyes again slowly. Straight above him waved the standard of his enemy.

"I never thought—to die—under the English flag," he said slowly and with great effort. Supplying its place with her own young soft arm, Katharine drew forth the little American ensign which had served him for a pillow—stained with his own blood—and held it up before him. A light came into his dying eyes,—a light of heaven, perhaps, no pain in his heart now. One trembling hand would still do his bidding; by a superhuman effort of his resolute will he caught the bit of bunting and carried it to his lips in a long kiss of farewell. His lips moved. He was saying something. Katharine bent to listen. What was it? Ah! she heard; they were the words he said on the deck of the transport when they saw the ship wrecked in the pass in the beating seas,—the words he had repeated in the old farmhouse on that winter night to the great general, when he told the story of that cruise; the words he had made to stand for the great idea of his own life; the words with which he had cheered and soothed and sustained and encouraged many weaker men who had looked to his iron soul for help and guidance. They were the words to which many a patriot like him, now lying mute and cold upon the hills about Boston, under the trees at Long Island, by the flowing waters and frowning cliffs of the Hudson, on the verdant glacis at Quebec, 'neath the smooth surface of Lake Champlain, in the dim northern woods, on the historic field of Princeton, or within the still depths of this mighty sea now tossing them upon its bosom, had given most eloquent expression and final attestation. What were they?

"For—for—love—of—country." The once mighty voice died away in a feeble whisper; a child might still the faintly beating heart. The mighty chest—rose—fell; the old man lay still. Love of country,—that was his passion, you understand.

Love of country! That was the great refrain. The wind roared the song through the pines, on the snow-clad mountains in the far north, sobbed it softly through the rustling palmetto branches in the south-land, or breathed it in whispers over the leaves of the oak and elm and laurel, between. The waves crashed it in tremendous chorus on rock-bound shores, or rolled it with tender caress over shining sands. Under its inspiration, mighty men left all and marched forth to battle; wooed by its subtle music, hero women bore the long hours of absence and suspense; and in its tender harmonies the little children were rocked to sleep. Ay, love of country! All the voices of man and nature in a continent caught it up and breathed it forth, hurled it in mighty diapason far up into God's heaven. Love of country! It was indeed a mighty truth. They preached it, loved it, lived for it, died for it, till at last it made them free!



CHAPTER XXXVIII

Philip Disobeys Orders

"Who is this, pray?" said Captain Vincent, at this moment stepping back to the silent little group.

"The boatswain of the Randolph," replied the colonel. "He has just died."

"Poor fellow! but there are many other brave men gone this day. What think you was the complement of the frigate, colonel?"

"Over three hundred men certainly," replied the colonel (the actual number was three hundred and fifteen). "Most of them not already done for were lost in the explosion, I presume?"

"Yes, assuredly; and now I owe you an apology, my dear sir. I never saw a more gallant action in my life. The man 's gone, of course, but he shall have full credit for it in my report; 'twas bravely done, and successfully, too. We are frightfully cut up, and in no condition to pursue. In fact, I will not conceal from you that some of our spars are so severely wounded, and the starboard rigging so damaged and scorched and cut up, that I know not how we could stand a heavy blow. Twenty-five are killed, and upward of sixty wounded too, and about thirty missing, killed, or wounded men of the boarding party, who were undoubtedly blown up with the frigate. Beauchamp is gone; and that little fellow there," pointing to a couple of seamen bringing a small limp body aft, "is Montagu. Poor little youngster!"

"This has indeed been a frightful action, captain," replied the colonel. "I knew young Seymour well. He was a man of the most consummate gallantry. This sacrifice is like him," he continued softly, looking at Katharine and then turning away. Perhaps the captain understood. At any rate he stepped to her side and said gently,—

"Mistress Katharine, this is no place for you; you must go below. Indeed, I must insist. I shall have to order you. Come—" and then laying his hand on her arm, he started back in surprise. "Why, you are wounded!"

"'Tis nothing, sir," said Katharine, faintly. "I welcome it; 'twas an American bullet. Would it had found my heart!"

"Only a flesh-wound, colonel; no cause for alarm," said the captain, looking at it with the eye of experience. "It will be all right in a day or two. But now she must go below. I can't understand how you were allowed to stay here, or be here. What were they thinking of? But you saw one of the hottest and most desperate battles ever fought between two ships since you were here. They can fight; you were right, colonel," he went on in ungrudging admiration.

"Here, Desborough," he added, addressing the lieutenant, who just then put his foot on the deck, "take Miss Wilton below, and ask the surgeon to attend her at his convenience; she 's gone and got herself wounded by her friends."

Lieutenant Desborough, black and grimy, streaked with smoke and powder, turned pale at the captain's words, and sprang forward anxiously and led the object of his love down the steps to her cabin. "Wounded!" he murmured. "Oh, my love, why did no one take you to a place of safety?"

"'T is nothing," she replied, going on as if in a dream.

Desborough had his wish: his rival was gone; he had the field to himself; but he was too manly to feel any exultation now that it was over, and too sorry for the vacant despair he saw on her face. He tenderly whispered to her as he led her on,—

"Believe me, dear Katharine, it is not thus I would have triumphed over Mr. Seymour. He was in truth a knightly gentleman."

Overwhelming pity for her filled his heart, and he went on magnanimously,—

"I am sorry—"

She made no answer; she did not hear. In the cabin the body of little Montagu was lying on a table. He would never get his frigate now. How small and frail and boyish looked the Honorable Giles to-day! Why did they send children like that to war? Had he no mother?—poor lad! Moved by a sudden impulse, she stooped and kissed him, as she had done an hour before. No throb of the proud little heart answered responsive to her caress now. Alas! she might kiss him when and as she pleased; he would not feel it, and he would not heed. Entering her own berth at last, she closed the door and sank down upon her knees,—alone with God!

"A sail coming down fast,—the little brig, sir," reported the officer of the deck to Captain Vincent. "Shall we come about and give him a broadside?"

"No, no; we dare not handle the braces yet,—not until the gear and spars have been well overhauled."

"Shall we use the stern-chaser then, sir?"

The Yarmouth had left the scene of the explosion some distance away by this time, but she was still within easy gun-shot. Captain Vincent earnestly examined the brig; as he looked, she came up to the wind, hove to, and dropped a boat in the water. There was a bit of spar still floating there. The captain saw that three or four men were clinging to it.

"No; she's on an errand of mercy. There are men in the water on that topmast there. Let her go free," he said generously. "We 've done enough to-day to satisfy any reasonable man."

The colonel grasped his hand warmly and thanked him. The little brig picked up her boat, swung her mainyard, and filled away again on the port tack, in the wake of the rest of the little squadron now far ahead; then, understanding the forbearance of the big ship, she fired a gun to leeward and dipped her ensign in salute.

The force of the explosion had thrown Seymour, from his advantageous position aft, far out into the water and away from the sinking ship. The contact with cold water recalled him to his senses at once; and with the natural instinct of man for life, he struck out as well as he might, considering his broken leg and wounded arm and weakened state. There was a piece of a mast with the top still on it floating near by. He struggled gallantly to make it,—'twas no use, he could do no more; closing his eyes, he sank down in the dark water. But help was near: a hand grasped him by his long hair and drew him up; one of his men, unwounded fortunately, had saved him. The two men presently reached the bit of wreck; the sailor scrambled up on it, and by a great effort drew his captain by his side; two more men swam over desperately, and finally joined the little group. They clung there helpless, hopeless, despairing, fascinated, watching the remains of the Randolph disappear, marking a few feeble swimmers here and there struggling, till all was still. Then they turned their eyes upon their late antagonist, running away before the wind in flames; they saw her fight them down successfully; appalled, none spoke. Presently one of the seamen glanced the other way, and saw the little brig swiftly bearing down upon them.

"God be praised! Here's the brig, the Fair American," he cried. "We shall be saved—saved!"

The brig was handled smartly; she came to the wind, backed the maintopsail, and lay gently tossing to and fro on the long swells. The young captain stood on the rail, clinging to the back-stays, anxiously watching. The boat was dropped into the water, and with long strokes shot over to them. The men sprang aboard; rude hands gently and tenderly lifted the wounded captain in. They pulled rapidly back to the brig; the falls were manned, and the boat was run up, the yard swung, and she filled away. Seymour was lifted down; Philip received him in his arms.

"I ought to arrest you for disobedience of orders," said the captain, sternly. "Why did you pay no attention to my signals? You have jeoparded the brig. Yon ship can blow you out of the water; you are quite within range."

But they soon saw that no motion was made by the ship; and in accordance with Seymour's orders the gun was fired and the colors dipped,—a salute which the ship promptly returned.

"I ought to put you under arrest, Philip," again said Seymour, faintly, while he was lying in the tiny cabin, having his wounds dressed; "but I will not. 'T was gallantly done; but obey orders first hereafter,—'t is the first principle of action on the sea." That was rather cool comfort for the young officer, considering that his somewhat reckless action had just saved Seymour's life. He made brief reply, however, and then resumed his station on the deck of his little vessel, which was rapidly overhauling the rest of the fleet. As soon as the night fell, the wind permitting, they were by Seymour's direction headed for the harbor of Charleston once more. Now that his mind was free again, Seymour's thoughts turned to that woman's form of which he had one brief glimpse ere the line-of-battle ship disappeared in the smoke. Could it indeed have been Katharine Wilton? Could fate play him such a trick as to awaken once more his sleeping hope? Through the long night he tossed in fevered unrest in his narrow berth. Again he went over the awful scenes of that one hour of horror. The roar of the guns, the crash of splintered timbers, the groans of the wounded men, rang in his fretted ear. They seemed to rise before him, those gallant officers and men, the hardy, bold sailors, veterans of the sea, audacious youngsters with life long before them, Bentley, his old, his faithful friend,—lost—all lost. Was there reproach in their gaze? Was it worth while, after all? Ay, but duty; he had always done his duty—duty always—duty— Ah, they faded away, and Katharine looked down upon—it was she—love—duty—love—duty! Was that the roar of battle again, or only his beating heart? They found him in the morning, delirious, shouting orders, murmuring words of love, calling Kate,—babbling like a child.



CHAPTER XXXIX

Three Pictures of the Sea

A short time before sunset that same evening the Yarmouth was hove to, and the hoarse cry of the boatswain and his mates was once more heard through the ship, calling,—

"All hands! Bury the dead."

Skilled hands had been working earnestly all the afternoon to repair the damage to the vessel; much had been accomplished, but much more still remained to be done. However, night was drawing on, and it was advisable to dispose of the dead bodies of those who had been killed in the action, or who had died since of their wounds, without further delay. Some of the sailmaker's mates had been busy during the afternoon, sewing up the dead in new, clean hammocks, and weighting each one with heavy shot at the feet to draw it down. The bodies were laid in orderly rows amidships, forward of the mainmast, and all was ready when the word was passed. The crew assembled in the gangways facing aft, the boatswain, gunner, carpenter, sailmaker, and other warrant officers at their head. The captain, attended by Colonel Wilton and the first lieutenant in full uniform, and surrounded by the officers down to the smallest midshipman, stood facing the crew on the quarter-deck; back of the officers, on the opposite side of the deck, the marine guard was drawn up. At the break of the poop stood the slender, graceful figure of a woman, alone, clearly outlined against the low light of the setting sun, looking mournfully down upon the picture, her heart, though filled with sadness and sorrow particularly her own, still great enough to feel sympathy for others.

The chaplain, clothed in the white vestments of his sacred office, presently came from out the cabin beneath the poop-deck, and stopped opposite the gangway between the line of men and officers. Two of the boatswain's mates, at a signal from the first lieutenant, stepped to the row of bodies and carefully lifted up the first one and laid it on a grating, covering it at the same time with a flag. They next lifted the grating and placed one end of it on the rail overlooking the sea, and held the other in their hands and waited. The captain uncovered, all the other officers and the men following his example.

The chaplain began to read from the book in his hand. The first body on the grating was a very small one,—only a boy, looking smaller in contrast to those of the men by which it had lain. The little figure of the Honorable Giles looked pathetic indeed. Some of the little fellow's messmates had hard work to stifle their tears; here and there in the ranks of the silent men the back of a hand would go furtively up to a wet eye, as the minister read on and on.

How run the words?

"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God, in His wise Providence, to take out of this world the soul of our deceased brother—" Was it indeed Thy pleasure, O God, that this little "brother" should die? Was Thy Providence summed up in this little silent figure? Alas, who can answer?

And then as the even voice of the priest went on with the solemn and beautiful words which never grow familiar,—"we therefore commit his body to the deep,"—the first lieutenant nodded to the watching sailors. They lifted the inboard end of the grating high in the air; a fellow midshipman standing by pulled aside the covering flag; the little body started, moved slowly,—more rapidly; there was a flash of light in the air, a splash in the water alongside.

The chaplain motioned for another; it was a man this time,—all the rest were men; four of the seamen lifted him up. Again the few short sentences, and the sailor was launched upon another voyage of life. Tears were streaming from eyes unused to weeping, tracing unwonted courses down the strangely weather-beaten, wrinkled cheeks; men mourning the loss of shipmate and messmate, friend and fellow. The last one in the row was a gigantic man; over his bosom was laid a little blood-stained flag of different blazoning: there was the blue field as in the heavens, white stars, and red and white stripes that enfolded him like a caress. The sailors lifted him up and waited a moment, until the tall, stately, distinguished figure of the colonel, in his plain civilian dress, stepped out from the group of officers and stood beside the grating; he put his hand upon the flag of his country, glad to do this service for a faithful if humble friend. It was soon over; with a little heavier splash old Bentley fell into the sea he had so loved, joining that innumerable multitude of those who, having done their duty, wait for that long-deferred day when the sea shall give up her dead! The woman hid her face within her hands, the great bell of the ship tolled solemnly forward, the sun had set, the men were dismissed, the watch called, and the night fell softly, while the ship glided on in the darkness.

Another week had elapsed. The Yarmouth had been driven steadily northward, and by contrary winds prevented from making her course. She was in a precarious condition too; a further examination had disclosed that some of her spars, especially the mainmast, had been so severely and seriously wounded, even more so than at first reported, as scarcely to permit any sail at all to be set on them, and not fit in anyway to endure stress of weather. The damages had been made good, however, as far as possible, the rigging knotted and spliced, the spars fished and strengthened as well. The ship had been leaking slightly all the time, from injuries received in the fight, in all probability; but a few hours at the pumps daily had hitherto kept her free, and though the carpenter had been most assiduous in a search for the leaks, and had stopped as many as he had been able to come at, some of them could not be found. The weather had steadily changed for the worse as they had reached higher latitudes, and it was now cold, rainy, and very threatening. The captain and his officers were filled with anxiety and foreboding. Katharine kept sedulously in her cabin, devoured by grief and despair; and the once cheery colonel, full of deep sympathy for his unfortunate daughter, went about softly and sadly during the long days.

The day broke gloomily on one certain unfortunate morning; they had not seen the sun for five days, nor did they see it then. No gladsome light flooded the heavens and awoke the sea; the sky was deeply overcast with cold, dull, leaden clouds that hung low and heavy over the mighty ship; a horror of darkness enshrouded the ocean. Away off on the horizon to the northeast the sky was black with great masses of frightful-looking clouds; through the glass the watchful officers saw that rain was falling in torrents from them, while the vivid lightning played incessantly through them. Where the ship was, it had fallen suddenly calm, and she lay gently rolling and rocking in the moderate swell; but they could see the hurricane driving down upon them, coming at lightning speed, standing like a solid wall, and flattening the waves by sheer weight. All hands had been called on deck at once, at the first glimpse of the coming hurricane. Desborough had the trumpet; the alert and eager topmen were sent aloft to strip the ship of the little canvas which the heavy weather and weakened spars had permitted them to show. It was a race between them and the coming storm. The men worked desperately, madly; some of them had not yet reached the deck when the rain and the wind were upon them. By the captain's direction, the colonel had brought Katharine from below, and she was standing on the quarter-deck sheltered by the overhang of the poop above, listlessly watching. Desborough had made no progress in his love-affairs; he had too much tact and delicacy to press his suit under the present untoward circumstances, and indeed had been too incessantly occupied with the pressing exigencies of the shattered ship, and the duties of his responsible position thereon, to have any time to spare for more than the common courtesies. The awful storm was at last upon them: a sudden change in its direction caused the first fierce blow to fall fairly upon the starboard side of the ship; it pressed her down on her beam-ends; over and over she went, down, down. Would she ever right again? Ah, the spliced shrouds and stays on the weather-side, which had been that attacked by the Randolph, finally gave way, the mainmast went by the board about halfway below the top, the foremast at the cap, and the mizzentopmast, too; relieved of this enormous mass of heavy top hamper, the ship slowly righted herself. The immense mass of wreckage beat and thundered against the port side; it was a fearful situation, but all was not yet lost. Gallantly led by Desborough himself, who saw in one sweeping glance that Katharine was still safe, the men, with axes and knives, hacked through the rigging which held the wreck of the giant spars to the ship, and after a few moments of sickening suspense she drifted clear; a bit of storm canvas was spread forward on the wreck of the foremast, and the ship got before the wind and drove on, laboring and pitching in the heavy sea. The decks were cleared; and indeed there was little left to clear, the waves having broken over her several times when she lay in the trough of the sea, sweeping everything out with them, and the vessel was a total wreck,—the spars gone, rails and bulwarks battered in and smashed, boats lost, the battle having destroyed these on the starboard side, and the wreck and the sea the others. Stop! there was one boat left amidships, a launch capable of holding about forty persons in a pinch, and still seaworthy; it was, by the captain's order, promptly made as serviceable as possible in view of the probable emergency.

About four o'clock in the afternoon the carpenter came aft with the sounding-rod of the well in his hand. The strain had been too much for her; some of the weakened timbers had given way, or some of the seams had opened, or perhaps a butt had started, for the ship was leaking badly. Still those dauntless men did not despair. The crew were told off in gangs to work, and all night the clank, clank, of the pumps was heard. Katharine dutifully laid down as she was bidden; but there was no sleep for her nor any one else on the ship that long night. The day broke again finally, but brought them no cheer: their labor had been unavailing; the leak had gained on them so rapidly that the ship lay low in the water, listless and inert, rolling in a sick, sluggish, helpless way in the trough of the sea. The wind had abated somewhat, and a boat well handled might live in the water now. By Captain Vincent's direction the men were sent to their stations on the spar, or upper deck. The boat's crew was chosen by selecting every fifteenth man in the long lines, the division officers doing the counting. The boat was launched without tackles, by main strength, sliding on rollers over the side through the broken bulwarks. Katharine, listless and indifferent, still attended by Chloe, was put aboard. Captain Vincent looked about among his officers; whom should he put in charge? They all looked deprecatingly and entreatingly at him. None desired to go; no one wished to be singled out to abandon the ship and his brother officers. His glance fell on Desborough.

"The duty is yours; you are the first officer of the ship."

"Oh, Captain Vincent, do not send me, I beg you. My place surely is on the ship with you. Cannot some one else—"

"No, you must go. My last command to you, my lord," he said, smiling faintly and extending his hand. Desborough, seeing the futility of further appeal, grasped it warmly in both his own, bowed to the other officers, and with a wave of his hand stepped on the rail and sprang into the tossing boat alongside.

"Are there any others to go?" he said.

The captain's eye fell upon the figure of the colonel standing among the officers.

"You are to go, sir. Nay, I will hear of no objections. You are my prisoner, and I am bound to see you delivered safely. Go, colonel. I mean it; I will have you put aboard by a file of marines if you do not go at once."

Katharine awoke from her apathy and stretched out her hands with a piteous cry,—

"Father, father, oh, I cannot lose you too."

"Prisoner or no prisoner, sir," said the colonel, "let me say that I am proud of my connection with you and your officers and your men. If I live to reach the shore, the world shall hear of this noble ending. Good-by, captain; good-by, gentlemen. I would fain stay with you."

"No, no!" was the cry from this band of heroes; and then Hollins sprang forward and shouted,—

"Lads! Three cheers for the colonel and for our shipmates in the launch! Let them tell at home that we were glad to stay by the old ship."

The hearty cheers came with a roar from five hundred throats.

"Good-by, good-by; God bless you!" cried the colonel, choking and utterly overcome, as he got into the boat, and sank down in the stern sheets beside his daughter.

"Colonel, we have n't a moment of time," whispered Desborough, who saw that the ship was sinking.

"Shove off, men; pull hard!"

A few moments of hard rowing in the heavy sea put them some little distance away, and the boat waited under just enough way to give them command of her. The men of the ship kept their stations; calm and peaceful, they also waited. The ship settled lower and lower; a man stepped hurriedly aft; and a moment later the bold and brilliant ensign of Old England, which never waved over braver men, fluttered out in the heavy breeze from the wrecked mast-head, the vivid red of the proud flag making a lurid dash of color against the gray sky-line. The ship was lower now. Now she plunged forward; the water rose; the captain raised his hand; three hearty cheers rang out; the drums beat; the marines presented arms. She was gone! The flag streamed out bravely on the surface of the water, and then it was drawn down; a confused mass of heads and waving arms was seen in the water, and they too in a moment were slowly drawn down into the vortex caused by the sinking ship. The woman again hid her face in her hands; the colonel laid his arm across the shoulder of his daughter; Desborough and the men in the boat stared horribly at the spot left vacant; a deep groan broke from them; they rose on the crest of a wave, sank down again, rose once more and looked again,—the little boat was alone on that mighty sea!

Oh, the agony of those long and frightful days in that little boat! Never a sail did they sight, as day after day they rowed or sailed to the westward, eagerly scanning the horizon for a landfall. The waves washed over them, saturating their clothing; the chill winds of winter froze them. First their provisions gave out, though served with the most rigid economy by Desborough himself; then the water, husbanded as no precious jewel was ever hoarded, was exhausted to the last drop, and that drop, by common consent, Desborough forced between Katharine's reluctant lips, though she would fain have refused it, claiming no indulgence beyond the others. The rare qualities of that young officer showed themselves brilliantly in this frightful peril. It was due to his skill and careful management that they were not swamped a dozen times; tireless, unselfish, cheerful, unsparing of himself, without him they would have died. The men bore their sufferings, when all food and water failed them, with the sturdy resolution of British sailors; Desborough his, with the courage of the hero that he was, his fiercest pang being for the white-faced girl who suffered in uncomplaining silence. The colonel exhibited the stoical indifference of a seasoned old soldier, as to his own personal condition, all his thoughts being centred upon his daughter, who passed through the dreadful experience with the calm resignation of a woman who had nothing left to live for, and, strange to say, seemed to feel it less acutely than the rest; even black Chloe, who had impartially shared with her mistress in all the favors accorded to her, being in a state of utter exhaustion, amounting to collapse.