Ned had been much surprised with all he had seen on board ship, but he was more surprised at what Bill told him, though in a different way. He said, certainly that he should like to go there, but how could he? Bill replied that "where there's a will there's a way." Many of his shipmates had heard Ned's history, and were interested in him; and he would speak to the first lieutenant and to some of the officers, who were kind, Christian men, and see what could be done.

Bill Hudson did do his best, and very effectual that was. He had acted as officer's servant, and saved up some money; and he went round the ship and told Ned's story; and all who heard it subscribed—some more and some less; and the officers, when they heard his proposal, subscribed very liberally. Ned was invited down to Bill's mess, and never had he eaten so hearty a dinner.

"No wonder the sailors on board here grow stout and strong, if they have so good a dinner as this every day," he observed.

"It's the same every day. No banyan days with us, now, in the navy," was the answer.

At last Bill Hudson's plan was matured, and the power granted him for carrying it into execution. Ned was told he must stop on board for tea. In the evening Bill came to him triumphant.

"It's all settled," he exclaimed. "You see, Ned, it would never do for you to go up to big London all by yourself, and to wander about, not knowing your way; so I've got leave from the first lieutenant to go with you."

"You—you go up to London with me; that will be good!" exclaimed Ned, delighted.

Ned slept on board, and, from the kind way he was treated, wished more than ever to go to sea. He was not aware—happily for himself—that he could have gone to sea, in the merchant service, without being able to read, and that only at that time, when it was resolved to raise the character of the men in the navy, that the rule with regard to reading and writing was enforced.

The next morning—Ned having been supplied, by the contributions of the sailors, with a suit of clothes, a pair of shoes, and a hat, and some shirts and other things in a bundle—the two lads left the ship, and took the first train to London. Bill would have gladly gone on foot, for the sake of economising his funds, so as to leave more with his new friend; but his leave extended only over three days, and he had many things to do.

The boys arrived in due time at London, and Bill employed as much time as he could in showing Ned about town. As evening drew on they repaired to Field Lane, and knocked for admission at the Refuge.

"What? William Hudson come back! What has happened to you, lad?" exclaimed the porter.

"Yes; it's myself, sure enough. I've come back to ask for a night's lodging, if there's room, and to bring this boy, who wants one badly. Can I see the superintendent?"

"Yes, sure. You know the way, Bill; go on," said the porter, in a kind tone.

The superintendent was very much pleased to see Bill Hudson, and more so to hear the story with which he introduced Ned Burton. He promised, gladly, to look after Ned, and, if he behaved well, to obtain regular employment for him in the neighbourhood.

Bill found, on calculating the amount of his funds, that he might leave some with the superintendent for Ned's use.

"I don't distrust you, Ned; but London is an awful wicked place; and if you kept the money, it might be stolen, and you almost murdered for the sake of it," he observed.

The next day the lads went out together, that Bill might introduce Ned to some of the people who used to employ him. Some had forgotten him; some had gone away; but a few remembered him kindly, and promised to help Ned.

Ned could not help shedding tears when Bill wrung his hand, as he was about to start back for Portsmouth. Then, if it had not been for the Refuge, and the superintendent, and the good missionary, and the porter, he would indeed have felt very miserable and forlorn, in the big city; but Field Lane was now to him his home, indeed—his refuge from adversity.

He remembered, however, that he had to work; so he set about finding employment in good earnest. His decent dress and manner were in his favour; and he gained a few pence, though, being a stranger, not so much as he might have gained had he known the ways of London. At night he went back to the Refuge with a thankful heart, and commenced his schooling. He gave his mind to his task, though he found it very hard work, at first, even learning the letters. The next night it was easier, and he was soon able, when waiting for a job, to employ himself by spelling out the names over the shop doors and the words on the advertising papers. Sometimes he could get nothing to do, especially in very bad weather; and then he went to the industrial school at the Refuge, if it was open, or to the day-school; and here he began to understand the great truths about religion, of which he had before been entirely ignorant. To one of the missionaries, who was especially kind to him, he took a great fancy; and to this good man he used to go, whenever he had an opportunity, and ask him questions, and to listen to his addresses. He first here heard the glorious tidings that "God is love;" and as he saw that beautiful principle carried out in every department of the undertaking, he could not help saying, "Ay, truly, this is God's work."

In little more than a year he had learned, by diligent attention, not only to read well, but to write a fair hand, while he had added greatly to his religious and secular knowledge; and, above all, he had become a new creature in Christ Jesus.

One day he received a letter at the Refuge from Bill Hudson. Bill wrote that he had just arrived at Portsmouth in the frigate to which he now belonged, and that if Ned would come down at once, he would see him on board the old —-, where he was sure that he would be received. Bill, moreover, enclosed a sovereign to pay for his journey.

Ned was sorry to leave the Refuge, and yet he rejoiced at the thought of being now able, as he had so long wished, to go to sea. His parting from his friends and journey to Portsmouth need not be described. Bill was at the station to meet him, and at once went with him on board the old —-.

He was, without difficulty, accepted. Bill had advised him to show his father's certificates. The first lieutenant spoke to him very kindly, when he saw them, and told him that he had known his father, who was a very good man, and he hoped that Ned would follow his example.

Ned Burton was no longer only a good-natured, well-meaning lad; he had now right principles to help him behave well; nor has he in any way disappointed the hopes of those who have taken an interest in his welfare.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE GOOD CAPTAIN

THE MUTINY AT SPITHEAD—AN EXCEPTION—VALUE OF A CHRISTIAN CAPTAIN—THE MUTINY BREAKS OUT AT SHEERNESS—ANOTHER LOYAL SHIP—THE MUTINY QUELLED.

In the year 1797 an event occurred connected with the navy of England, which cannot even now be thought of without sorrow and shame. The crews of most of the ships of the Channel fleet then anchored at Spithead deposed their officers, and refused to proceed to sea, unless certain grievances of which they complained were redressed.

It must be remembered, however, that the seamen of those days were very uneducated—too often utterly ignorant of religious truth, and thus easily imposed upon by designing men. Their pay was scanty, the provisions served out to them often bad, and deficient in quantity, while no care was taken of their moral or spiritual welfare. Still no excuse can be offered for mutiny however much we may pity those who are induced to commit the crime in the hopes of obtaining redress for wrongs. The Christian must ever look to his Lord and Master, and be guided by His conduct under wrong and oppression. However, all the ships' companies did not mutiny, and among those which remained faithful to their duty was the crew of the Saint Fiorenzo frigate, Captain Sir Harry Burrard Neale. How came this about? Was discipline less strict on board the Saint Fiorenzo? Were her crew allowed greater licence than those of other ships? Certainly not. But on board her the law of kindness, of mercy, and justice prevailed; on board many others it was too often neglected. However, an account of the behaviour of her crew on that trying occasion shall be given in the words of one who was then a midshipman on board her:—

"Our captain was one of the most upright and humane men in the service— a perfect officer and a perfect gentleman;" and a true, humble Christian, from whose mouth an oath never proceeded, whose lips never uttered a falsehood, might have been added. "He was a great favourite with George the Third, and the Saint Fiorenzo had consequently been appointed to attend on His Majesty during his summer sojourn at Weymouth. The King won the affection of both officers and men by his urbane and kind manners whenever he came on board. He used to call us up, and talk to us, lieutenants, midshipmen, and seamen alike, in the most familiar manner, taking an interest in our private histories, and all we had to say for ourselves. No wonder, then, that officers and men were loyal to the back-bone. Our captain, too, from the day he commissioned the ship, had, by his justice and kindness, done still more to make the officers and men love him. Few fathers would have been more thoughtful of the interests of their children than he was of the welfare of the men under his charge. On the 14th of April, 1797, the Saint Fiorenzo lay at Spithead, forming one of a large fleet under Lord Bridport. It was known that certain complaints had been sent up to the Admiralty by the ships' companies, but little was thought of the matter by the officers, when some of the petty officers of the Saint Fiorenzo informed Sir Harry that the men of most of the ships had resolved to mutiny, if the complaints were not forthwith attended to. It was supposed that the documents received at the Admiralty were forgeries, or sent up by a few disaffected men. Sir Harry, however, on cross-questioning our people, was convinced that the petitions really did express the opinions of the seamen of the navy, and promising that he would make the true state of the case known, that very evening sent up an officer with despatches to London. The next day the mutiny broke out, and each ship's company was directed to send representatives, called delegates, on board the Queen Charlotte. Sir Harry directed our ship's company to select two of the most sensible and trustworthy of our men, Aynsley and Stanley, as their delegates, and they regularly informed him of all that was taking place. His representations had great weight at head-quarters; the more reasonable demands of the mutineers were granted, and the seamen returned to their duty.

"In the meantime we received orders to fit out at Sheerness, to carry over the Princess Royal to Cuxhaven, after her marriage with the Duke of Wurtemburg. That no time might be lost, the guns on both sides, from the cabin door to the break of the poop, were sent down into the hold, that the carpenters might begin fitting up the cabins, thus crippling our powers as a fighting ship.

"On our arrival at Sheerness, great was our astonishment at finding the red flag—the signal of mutiny—flying on board the Sandwich. It being supposed that her crew had not been informed of what had taken place at Spithead, our delegates were sent to explain matters. On getting on board they were disgusted to find that fresh demands had been made on the Government by the crews of the North Sea fleet, of a nature so frivolous that they were not at all likely to be granted. Our men, it appeared, expressed their views in a very unguarded way, and in no courteous language. This enraged Parker—the unhappy man who had assumed the command of the fleet—and the other ringleaders, and our ship's company became marked as disaffected to the common cause. From the information our delegates gave on their return, it was suspected that the mutineers intended removing our officers. In consequence, Sir Harry resolved immediately to quit the fleet and to run into the harbour of Sheerness.

"Near us lay the Clyde, an old fellow-cruiser, commanded by Captain Cunningham, who had, also, by kindness and justice, won the confidence and affection of his crew. An arrangement was accordingly made between the two captains and the ship's companies, that they would make the attempt together, and share each other's fortune.

"Neither of our pilots, however, through fear or treachery, would take charge of the ships. At this juncture Captain Cunningham went on board the Chatham yacht, which lay near, for Mr William Bardo, one of her mates with whose fitness for the task he was acquainted. Mr Bardo undertook the task of piloting the Clyde, and as she was the inshore ship, she was to move first. We watched her with intense anxiety. She cast the right way, and before one of the ships in the power of the mutineers could make sail after her, she was safe from pursuit. Not having a pilot we could trust, and the tide now being unfavourable, Sir Harry decided to wait till the suspicions of the mutineers might be lulled. Our anxiety was relieved when, soon after dusk, Mr Bardo, sent by Captain Cunningham, came off to us in a small boat to pilot us in. Just, however, as we were preparing to move the next morning, a body of the delegates came on board, and, abusing our men for allowing the Clyde to escape without firing into her, ordered them to bring the Saint Fiorenzo in and place her between the Inflexible and Director, to unbend our sails, and to send our gunpowder on board the Sandwich, the flag-ship of the so-called Admiral Parker. So enraged were our people with these orders, that one of the quarter-masters, John Aynsley, came aft, and in the name of the ship's company, begged that they might heave the delegates overboard.

"Sir Harry, however, to whom all matters were referred, while he sat quietly in his cabin out of sight, ordered our delegates to express their readiness to comply with Admiral Parker's orders; and at length the mutineers, satisfied that we were about to do as directed, left the ship.

"As soon as they were gone, we got springs on our cable, so as to cast inwards, and all was made ready to run, as was at first intended, into Sheerness. In heaving, however, the spring broke, and we cast outward. The effect of this was to carry us right among the mutinous fleet.

"At this critical juncture, Sir Harry, whose presence of mind never forsook him, directed one of the quartermasters to appear on deck as if in command, while he and all the officers concealed themselves in different parts of the ship—he posting himself so that he could, unseen, issue his orders. In a moment every sail was sheeted home, and we stood in between the two line-of-battle ships, which, as the delegates had told us, had all their guns double shotted, while their crews stood ready, lanyards in hand, to sink us with their broadsides.

"On we stood, the ship gathering good way, when, as we got in among the mutinous fleet, Sir Harry gave the order to let fly all the sheets. This so completely took the mutineers by surprise that they, believing the ship was coming about, did not fire a shot at us. Sir Harry then ordered the helm to be put 'hard a port,' which caused the ship to shoot ahead of the Inflexible and clear of her. He immediately sprang on deck, crying out, 'Well done, my lads!' A loud murmur of applause was heard fore and aft along the deck, but we had no time for cheering. 'Now clear away the bulk-heads, and mount the guns,' he added. Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, than the whole fleet of thirty-two sail opened their fire. The shot fell thick as hail around us on every side. The men stood at their stations without flinching. Of course it would have been worse than useless to have returned their fire.

"On we stood. Never ship passed through such a fire so slightly scathed. Not that we escaped altogether; now a shot struck us, now another. The Director alone might have sunk us; but, as far as we could judge, not a shot came from her. Some believed that her crew, struck with admiration at the heroism displayed by our people, fired wide, or did not put shot into their guns. Though we were repeatedly hulled, not a rope was shot away, nor was any one hurt on board. God in his mercy, working as he thinks fit to work through human agency, protected us. Everybody was labouring with a will, and in two hours we had our decks clear, our guns mounted, and were in a perfect state of preparation to meet a foe.

"No sooner was this done than the men came aft in a body, and begged Sir Harry that should any of the mutinous fleet come up with us, they might be allowed to go down at their guns rather than return to the Nore. The captain promised them that they should have their wish: at which they seemed as contented as if some great favour had been done them.

"As yet, however, there were no signs of our being pursued: though shortly the determination of our men was to be put to the test.

"Sir Harry had resolved to return to Portsmouth, and when just off the mouth of the Thames a fleet of men-of-war hove in sight. They approached with the red flag at their mast-heads. This was the North Sea fleet, with the admiral and all the officers under arrest.

"No sooner were we seen than a frigate bore down on us. That we could escape her was doubtful; and though we could have beaten her off had we fired, we should have brought the rest of the fleet down on us. Sir Harry, therefore, gave the speaking-trumpet to Stanley, and directed him to answer the questions of the mutineers. His replies seemed satisfactory, for the frigate, hauling her wind, rejoined the fleet. Scarcely had we lost sight of the North Sea fleet, than we spoke a brig, which gave us the astounding information that the mutiny had again broken out at Spithead. We therefore, just as it was growing dark, anchored under Dungeness, with springs on our cables, prepared for an attack.

"Towards the end of the middle watch, a large ship, as she appeared, was seen bearing down towards us. The crew, believing her to be a foe, again came aft, and repeated their request to be allowed to sink, rather than surrender to the mutineers. The private signals were made: they were answered; but that was no security, as the mutineers would of course have possessed themselves of them. The drum beat to quarters. It was a time of awful suspense. The wind was very light. The stranger closed slowly. Many asserted that she was a line-of-battle ship. As the light from our fighting-lanterns beamed forth from every port, it was easily seen what we were. Our springs were hove on, to keep our broadside to bear. Our captain hailed; breathless, we waited for a reply. The answer was, 'H.M.S. Huzzar, Captain Lord Garlais, from the West Indies.' Coming from a long voyage, she was high out of the water, which made her appear, in the gloom, like a line-of-battle ship. When his people, who had heard nothing of the mutiny, were acquainted with what had occurred, they were so much struck with the bravery and determination of our ship's company, that they promised to stick by us, and share our fate if attacked by the mutineers. Not many days after this, Parker and his associates were allowed by the seamen they had misled to be carried on shore by a file of soldiers, without opposition, and the mutiny was brought to an end."

The last years of that good captain, who had been the friend and companion of princes—who had so often in battle met the enemies of his country, were spent in visiting the cottages of the poor surrounding his house, telling them of the Saviour's love, carrying them food and clothing, and other comforts, and never failing to speak kind words of comfort and advice.

But we must not pause here. Some important lessons are to be learnt from this narrative. See how the law of love and kindness, combined with justice, prevails, where harshness and severity fail. The crews of the Saint Fiorenzo and Clyde were composed of the same class of men as those of the ships which mutinied; yet the latter basely struck their colours, and the former were ready to die for their officers.

Let us ask ourselves, how do we rule in our families—over those placed under us? By the rule of our merciful Saviour, or by the rule of the world, of our own tempers—that is, the flesh—or of the devil?

See, again, by the way the crew of the Huzzar behaved, what a good example can effect. If we adhere to the Captain of our Salvation— firmly and boldly confess him—we may be assured that we not only shall gain the respect of our associates, but, which is of far more consequence, that we shall bring over others to love and confess him also.

Then, again, can we, after reading this account, think without sorrow and confusion of the way we have behaved to our heavenly King and Captain? We are told that because the king spoke to the officers and crew of the Saint Fiorenzo in a kind manner, taking an interest in their private histories, they were loyal to the backbone. Does not our heavenly King and Father speak to us daily, through the Holy Scriptures, words full of kindness, love, and mercy? Surely he does, if we will but diligently read that Book of books. He allows us, too, as no earthly king can do, to go to him daily—every hour—every moment of our lives. His ear is ever open to our prayers—he who keeps Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps—to tell him our private histories—our wants, our wishes, our hopes; to confess to him all we have done amiss—all our sins. And, moreover, he promises us that if we repent of them, and trust to the cleansing blood of Jesus, he will forgive them freely and fully, and give us what no earthly monarch can give, eternal life, and raise us to dwell with him in happiness unspeakable, for ever and ever.



CHAPTER NINE.

THE SMUGGLER'S FATE

THE SMUGGLER'S WIFE—HANSON STARTS ON HIS TRIP—HIS WIFE'S ANXIETY—THE REVENUE OFFICERS APPROACH—THE SMUGGLERS TAKE TO THE WATER—THE FIGHT—A FEARFUL END.

"Good-bye, Susan—good-bye, my wife. I'll bring thee over a silk gown, and such Brussels lace as you've never yet set eyes on. It will make a lady of you; and you're not far off being one now, to my mind, so don't fret—don't fret, Susan, dear."

These words were uttered by Robert Hanson, a fine sailor-like-looking man. And a bold seaman he was, indeed; but was also unhappily known to be one of the most daring smugglers on the coast. Having kissed his wife affectionately, and knelt down by the side of the cradle in which their infant slept, to bestow another kiss on its smiling lips, he hurried from the cottage.

Susan looked after him sorrowfully. She had entreated him, over and over again—not as earnestly as she might, perhaps—to give up his dangerous and lawless occupation, and with a laugh he had told her that each trip should be his last. Did it never occur to him how his promise might be fulfilled? It did to Susan; and often and often she had trembled at the thought. She had been brought up by praying parents, and had been taught from her childhood to pray, but she could not pray now—she dared not—she felt it would be a mockery. She was wrong, though. She could not pray that God would protect her husband in his lawless occupation, but she might have prayed that her merciful Father in heaven would change his heart—would lead him from the paths of sin, and put a right spirit within him, even although he might be brought to poverty, and she might no longer enjoy the luxuries which he allowed her. She was sure, however, that he could make, by a lawful calling, enough for all their wants; whereas a large portion of what he now gained was spent in feasting and treating with open hand his smuggling companions; so at the end of the year, except for the dresses and other articles which were utterly useless to Susan, they were very little the better for all his toil and the many fearful risks he had run. She stood watching him with tearful eyes and a foreboding heart, as he descended the cliff on which their cottage stood.

Bob, as Hanson was called by his companions, looked in at three or four of the huts which formed the fishing village at the foot of the cliff, and gave sundry directions to their inmates. The answer he received from all of them was much the same: "Never fear, captain, we'll be ready."

"You understand, Dore," he said, stopping at one of the huts for some little time, "you'll be on the look-out for us on Tuesday night at Durlstone Point. Now mind you also tell Green, the landlord of the 'Jolly Tar,' to have the two covered carts there, with his fastest horses and trusty men to drive—Bill Snow and Tom Thatcher—they are true men; but not that fellow Dennis—he'll bring the Coast Guard down on us one of these days, you'll see, if we trust him—and take care that we've no lack of hands to run the cargo up the cliff."

Such were some of the directions Hanson gave to his confederates. He then, with active steps, proceeded to a small harbour at a little distance along the shore, where a fast-looking cutter of about forty tons lay at anchor. He hailed her. A preventive man (as the revenue officers are called), with his spyglass under his arm, passed him.

"What, Bob, off again?" he said, in a careless tone; "we'll be on the look-out for you, if you'll tell us when you are coming back."

"May be next week, or the week after, or a month from this; but thank you all the same," answered Bob, laughing, as he stepped into the punt which came for him. As soon as he was on board, the Saucy Sue made sail for the French shore, and, under a crowd of canvas, was soon out of sight.

It was soon known at each preventive station along the coast that Bob Hanson was away in the Saucy Sue, and might ere long be expected back with a cargo of contraband. A sharp look-out was accordingly kept for him. Often and often before this, however, he had been expected, but the goods had been run, notwithstanding, and the Saucy Sue having appeared in the offing, had come into the harbour without an article of contraband on board, Bob and his crew looking innocent as lambs.

Tuesday came. Susan knew that on that night the attempt to run the cargo was to be made. There was no moon. The sun set red and lowering over Durlstone Point, and dark clouds were seen chasing each other rapidly across the sky, rising from a dark bank which rested on the western horizon, while white-crested seas began to rise up out of the sombre green ocean, every instant increasing in number. The wind whistled mournfully among the bushes and the few stunted trees, with tops bending inland, which fringed the cliffs, and the murmur of the waves on the beach below changed ere long into a ceaseless roar.

Susan sat in her cottage, watching the last rays of the setting sun as her foot rocked her baby's cradle. She knew well the path to Durlstone Point along the cliffs. No longer able to restrain her anxiety (why more excited than usual on that evening, she could not have told), she left her child in charge of her young sister, who had come in to see her, and hurried out. The clouds came up thicker and thicker from the south-west, and the darkness rapidly increased. She had good reason to dread falling over the cliff. Several times she contemplated turning back; but the thought of her husband's danger urged her on. "If I could find the spotsman, Ned Dore, I would beseech him to warn the cutter off," she said to herself; "it can never be done on a night like this." She went on till she came to a dip, or gulley, when a break in the cliff occurred. A steep path led down the centre to the beach. She heard the sound of wheels, with the stamp of horses' feet, as if the animals had started forward impatiently and been checked, and there was also the murmur of several voices. Suddenly a light flashed close to her.

"Oh, Ned Dore, is that you?" she exclaimed. "Don't let them land to-night; there'll be harm come of it."

"No fear, Mrs Hanson," said Dore, recognising her voice. "All's right—the cutter has made her signal, and I have answered it. Couldn't have a better time. The revenue men are all on the wrong scent, and we'll have every cask a dozen miles from this before they are back. Just you go home, good woman, and your husband will be there before long."

Susan, however, had no intention of leaving the spot. Again she entreated Dore, almost with tears, to warn off the cutter, alleging that there was already too much surf on the beach to allow the boats to land with safety. Dore almost angrily again refused, declaring that the cutter had already begun to unload, and that the boats would soon be in. Seeing that her entreaties were useless, she sat herself down on a rock jutting out of the cliff, and tried to peer into the darkness. She waited for some time, when footsteps were heard, and one of the men posted to watch, came running in with the information that a party of the revenue were approaching. Dore, coming up to her, pulled her by force below the rock on which she had been sitting. The other men concealed themselves under the bushes—among other rocks and in holes in the cliff—the lights were extinguished, and the carts were heard moving rapidly away. Not a word was spoken—the men held in their breath as the revenue officers approached. Poor Susan almost fainted with dread— not for herself, but for her husband. Where was he all the time? She knew too well the smugglers' mode of proceeding not to have good cause for fear.

"It was off here, sir, I saw the light flash," Susan heard one of the men say. "There is a road a little further up, and the cart wheels we heard must have passed along it."

"It is a likely spot, and must be watched."

Susan recognised the voice of the last speaker as that of Mr Belland, the new lieutenant of the Coast Guard, reputed to be an active officer.

"Do you, Simpson and Jones, station yourselves on the top of the cliff, and fire your pistols if you see anything suspicious," he said. "Wait an hour, and then move back to your beats—there will be sea enough on by that time to save us further trouble."

"Ay, ay, sir," was the brief answer.

The two preventive men took up their stations, one of them directly above where Susan was crouching down, and the lieutenant and his party moved on.

While these events were taking place on shore, the Saucy Sue had approached the coast. Her usual signal was made and answered in a satisfactory manner, and preparations for landing the cargo were forthwith commenced. There were among it silks and other valuable articles, carefully packed in water-tight casks. The rest consisted of spirits in casks, two of which a man could carry on his shoulders. The casks were now secured together by ropes in separate parcels, eighteen or two dozen in each, and lowered overboard. The cutter's two boats then took them in tow, and approached the beach. As they drew near, a small light, shown for an instant, warned them that the preventive men were on the alert. A weight sufficient to moor each parcel was on this dropped overboard, and the boats hung on to them.

"We must try the old dodge," said Hanson, after waiting for some time. "I'll take three parcels—Tom and Bill, you take the rest; we've never missed that way."

Saying this, he threw off his outer clothing, the two men he spoke to did the same, and all three slipping overboard, took hold of the tow-lines attached to the casks. The boats returned to the cutter, and were hoisted on board; after which, letting draw her fore-sheet, she stood out at sea. Hanson and his daring companions, buoyed up with a few corks under their arms, and knives in their hands to cut the casks from the moorings, remained with their heads just above the water, watching for the signal to tow them in. There they remained, their eager eyes turned towards the cliff—the dark sky above them, the foaming waters around. Every instant their position became more perilous; for as the tide rose, the ledge of rocks to the westward no longer afforded them the protection it had done at first, and the seas came rolling in, and the surf broke more and more heavily every instant.

Could they pray for help? No. They knew well that they were engaged in unlawful work—that they were breaking the laws of their country— refusing to render to Caesar the things that were Caesar's. Such was the picture the poor wife beheld in her mind's eye, as she gazed down into the dark waters, where she well knew that her husband then was.

Slowly the anxious hour passed away. The preventive men, however, still seemed suspicious that all was not right, and lingered at their posts. They at last hailed each other, and held a conversation in a low tone. They were close to where two of the men lay hid. Susan, in addition to her other cause of alarm, dreaded that an act of violence would be committed, if they did not move off. The preventive men would fire their pistols, certainly; but there still might be time for the tubs to be landed, and the smugglers to make their escape, before the rest of the Coast Guard could reach the spot. Her alarm increased when she found that Dore had crept away.

What she dreaded happened. The two preventive men came down into the hollow, as if about to descend to the beach. Suddenly they were set upon by a dozen men. One fired his pistol, the other was knocked down before he could draw a weapon from his belt. The first fought desperately, but a blow from a hanger brought him to the ground, where he lay mortally wounded. The arms of the other were pinioned, his mouth gagged, and the smugglers rushed down to the beach.

The signal was now made to Hanson and his companions. The smugglers waited to allow time for them to come in, every instant dreading the return of the Coast Guard. At length a cry was heard, "Help, help!" Several of the most daring rushed into the water. First one of Hanson's companions was dragged on shore, almost exhausted. The tubs were drawn in, and rapidly carried up the cliff. The second man was next found; but he had abandoned his tubs, and was more dead than alive. But where was Hanson himself?

Susan had found her way down to the beach. No one noticed her.

"I'm afraid the captain is gone. It was his plan, but a desperately dangerous one," she heard one of the men say. She stood speechless with terror.

Just then a light flashed from the cliff above.

"Each man for himself," was the cry, as the smugglers made their escape up the only path open to them.

She stood alone on the sand, with the seas roaring up to her feet. She heard footsteps approaching. "Oh! where—where is my husband?" she cried out.

"I don't know, missus; but murder has been committed, and some one has done it." It was one of the preventive men spoke.

Daylight at length broke. A tangled mass of tubs and rope, and a human form attached to them, was seen surging up and down in the foaming breakers. It was dragged on shore, and the poor young widow sank senseless on her husband's body.



CHAPTER TEN.

THE INDIAN MOTHER, A TALE OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS

THE HALF-BREED TRAPPER LA TOUCHE—HIS WIFE KAMELA—THEIR CHILDREN—THEY ARE SENT ON AN EXPEDITION—THE ENCAMPMENT—ATTACKED BY BLACKFEET, AND THE MEN SLAIN—THE YOUNG WIDOW FLIES—ALMOST CAPTURED—BACK TO THE FORT—THE REFUGE DESTROYED!—WOLVES—FURTHER FLIGHT—REFUGE AT LAST.

Great Britain possesses the sovereignty over a rich extent of country, extending from the Atlantic on the east to the Pacific on the west. Beyond the further shore of Lake Superior is found a region of lakes and rapid rivers, rocks, hills, and dense wood, extending for about 400 miles, nearly up to the Red River or Selkirk settlement. To the west of this, a rich prairie stretches far away up to the foot of the Rocky Mountains, from which the Saskatchewan descends, and, soon becoming a broad river, flows rapidly on to Lake Winnepeg. Other streams descending, find their way into the Polar Sea, or Hudson's Bay. On the west, the Columbia, the Fraser, and others flow, with very eccentric courses, into the Pacific. Besides this, there are numerous lakes divided from each other, in many instances, by lofty mountains and thick forests.

Over the whole of this extensive region the Hudson's Bay Company held, for many years, undivided sway, and kept in its employment large numbers of men—voyageurs, or canoe-men, and hunters—both whites of European descent (chiefly French Canadians), and also half-breeds and Red Indians. The country was inhabited by several nations of Indians, some known as Wood Indians, others as Prairie Indians and these again were divided into tribes or clans, frequently at war with each other; and these wars were cruel in the extreme, often exterminatory, neither age nor sex being spared. Their dress was skins, embroidered with beads, feathers, and porcupine quills. They painted their faces and ornamented their hair in a fantastic manner. Their weapons were the bow and arrow, spears, and hatchets. Their canoes were of birch-bark; their habitations, huts, or wigwams, either of a conical shape, or like a basin reversed, and formed of buffalo-skins and birch-bark. The Indians of the prairie possessed horses, and hunted the buffalo. Those of the woods, having few horses, lived chiefly on deer and smaller game, and cultivated potatoes and Indian corn. They believed in one Great and Good Spirit, and in the existence of numerous evil spirits, whom they feared and endeavoured to propitiate. Missionaries, however, went among them, and many have been brought out of darkness to a knowledge of the truth.

Among the most interesting of the tribes in British North America and the west of the Rocky Mountains are the Cootonais. They are handsome, above the middle size, and, compared with other tribes, remarkably fair; in conversation candid, in trade honest, brave in battle, and devotedly attached to each other and to their country. Polygamy is unknown among them. The greatest neatness and cleanliness are observable about their persons and lodges.

It was among this tribe that Pierre La Touche, a brave young half-breed trapper, sought for a wife. He had not long to wait before he found a maiden whose charms captivated his heart; besides which, she was an accomplished manufacturer of mocassins, snow-shoes, and garments of every description; she could also ride a horse and paddle or steer a canoe; she was fearless in danger, and she had, indeed, been greatly tried; once especially, when a party of Blackfeet, the hereditary enemies of her tribe, had made their way over the mountains to recover some horses which her people had captured. The Cootonais claimed the right of hunting the buffalo to the east of the Rocky Mountains, on the prairies which the Blackfeet considered belonged exclusively to themselves. This was naturally a fertile source of dispute.

Kamela, or the "Young Fawn," the name given to the damsel selected by La Touche, had been well trained to endure all the hardships and privations to which a hunter's wife is invariably exposed.

The usual ceremonies having been gone through, the young Kamela went to La Touche's tent, and became his most loving and devoted wife. He treated her, not as the Indians would—as a slave, but as an equal and a friend, except in the presence of her countrymen, when he assumed the stern, indifferent manner with which they treat their wives. La Touche did not long remain idle; but away over the mountains, and down streams and rapids, across lakes, and through dense forests, he had to travel to join a band of the fur-trading company to which he belonged. Here four or five years of his life were spent; and the once-graceful Kamela had become a mother, with two fine children—Moolak, a boy, and a little Kamela.

One day, towards the end of the year, La Touche received orders to join Mr McDonald, a factor, with several other men, to assist in establishing a fort on one of the streams which run into the Fraser River. The spot selected was on a high bluff, with the river flowing at its base. The fort was of a simple construction. It was surrounded by a palisade of stout timbers, fixed deeply in the ground, and united by cross-bars, further strengthened by buttresses, and loop-holed for musketry, with a few light guns to sweep the fort should the enemy break in. The interior consisted of log-huts and storehouses. Such is the style of most of the fur-trading forts. To these forts the Indian hunters bring their furs at periodical seasons, and receive fire-arms and ammunition, tobacco, blankets, hatchets, knives, and other articles in return; and too often, also, the deadly "fire-water."

The fort being finished, the hunters were sent off in parties in different directions to search for game—either for food, or for the furs of the animals. Mr McDonald, sending for La Touche, told him that he must proceed to a spot at the distance of about five days' journey, with provisions for six weeks, accompanied by two other men. "We will take care of your wife and children till you return," he added.

"No, thank you, sir; I prefer having my wife's society. We have gone through many hardships and dangers together; and she will be happier with me, and safer than in the fort," answered the hunter.

"How so, La Touche?" asked the factor.

"Why, sir, I mean that we have enemies—that it is possible the fort may be attacked; and that, if you are not very vigilant, it may be captured by treachery, if not by force," answered La Touche.

"You are plain spoken; but you need not be alarmed about our safety. I have not lived among these Red Skins for eight years or more, without knowing their habits and tricks," answered Mr McDonald. "However, by all means, take your wife and children with you: you can have horses to convey them."

La Touche, thanking the good-natured factor, set off with his companions and wife and children. His wife, from habit, marked well the way they took; indeed, from constantly accompanying her husband, she knew the country as well as he did. They met on their way natives of two or three of the neighbouring tribes; but, as they were well mounted and armed, no one molested them. They had rivers to ford, and hills to climb, and there were woods through which, occasionally, to save a long round, they had to hew their way.

At length the party reached the hunting-ground to which the factor had directed them. Wigwams were erected—conical shaped, and covered with birch-bark—in a nook of the dense grove of cedars, where they would be sheltered from the icy winds of the north; one for La Touche and his family, the other for their companions. While the men went out hunting, Kamela remained at home to cook their provisions, and to look after her children; she also set cunningly-devised traps in the neighbourhood of the wigwams, over which she could watch. She never failed to have a good supper prepared for the hunters on their return home in the evening. She was one evening employed as usual, now lulling her little girl to sleep as the infant lay in its hammock in the wigwam, now attending to the simmering caldron, her quick ear ever on the watch for the footstep of her husband. Suddenly she started. "That is not Pierre's footstep," she muttered; "it is that of a stranger—no; it is Michel's. Alas! he is wounded."

Her fears were not unfounded. In another minute, Michel, one of the hunters, staggered into her hut, fearfully wounded. No sooner had he entered, than he sank on the ground gasping for breath.

"Fly!" he said; "they are both dead—your husband and Thomas. The Blackfleet have done it. Take the horses—ride direct to McDonald's fort—tell him—Oh! this pain! water, good Kamela!"

Before, however, the water reached his lips, the faithful hunter, who had thus exerted his last remaining strength to save, if possible, the life of his friend's wife and children, fell back, and died.

Kamela lost not a moment in giving way to unavailing grief. Michel's condition too fearfully corroborated his account to allow her to doubt it. Hurrying out, she caught with much difficulty two of the horses; putting a pack on one and a saddle on the other, she loaded the first with her blankets and two buffalo-robes, with some dried salmon and beaver-flesh and flour, and on the other she mounted with her boy before her and little Kamela at her back, and set off at a rapid rate in the direction of McDonald's fort.

She rode as she had never before ridden, scarcely daring to look behind lest she should see some of her dreaded enemies in pursuit. Not for herself did she fear—he that had bound her to earth was gone—but she feared for her beloved little ones, who might fall into the hands of her remorseless foes. Night was rapidly drawing on. The ground was covered with snow. It was bitterly cold; but she was afraid to light a fire, lest it might betray her to those who she was persuaded would be on the search for her. With her axe she quickly cut some boughs and stripped off sufficient bark to form a shelter, and wrapping herself and her children in the blankets she had brought, and tethering the horses close to her, she lay down to wait till morning light should enable her to pursue her journey. Sleep did not visit her eyelids, but anxiously she listened the livelong night for any sounds which might indicate the approach of foes. A wandering pack of wolves might have discovered her; and as she had only a long knife, which she had brought away to defend herself, her prospect of escape was small indeed.

Daylight came at last, and at the first grey streak of light in the eastern sky she was again mounted as before, and on her way towards the fort. She did not draw rein except when necessary to stop and feed the horses. If enemies were following her, she began to hope that she had distanced them. Choosing for her camp at night a sheltered spot in a deep hollow, she ventured to light a small fire, at which she could warm her own and her little one's benumbed limbs and dress some food. She slept, too; but still so heavy was her heart, that she would have welcomed death but for the little ones at her side.

Kamela, too, had a hope beyond the grave. Confused as her notions probably were, she had learned from her husband that the Great Spirit, who made the world, is a God of love, and holiness and purity; that it is not His will that any should perish; that it was man's disobedience brought sin, and suffering, and death into the world, and that God's Own Son came into the world that He might triumph over both. Kamela could, therefore, pray intelligently to that Great Spirit through His Son, who died for the sins of the whole world, for protection and support. Not often has a person been placed in greater peril than was that young Indian woman.

On the evening of the third day, just as she had reached the brow of a hill, she saw galloping towards her a band of warriors. She knew at a glance that they were foes. She trusted that she had not been seen. Rapidly turning her horses round, she galloped down the hill into the thickest part of the wood. Again she watched. The Indians, instead of ascending the hill, as she feared they might do, kept along the valley, and thus did not discover her trail. She emerged from her concealment, and, as long as light lasted, pushed on towards the fort. Once there, she trusted that food and shelter would be found for her little ones. More than once little Moolak asked for his father. Only then did tears start to her eyes. She replied, "He has gone to be with the Great Spirit. We shall go to him some day."

The neighbourhood of the fort was reached; her loved ones would be in safety. She drew in her rein. Anxiously she looked towards the bluff on which the fort had been built. "Surely, it rose above yonder clump of bushes," she said to herself.

She approached cautiously. With a sinking heart she gazed at the spot where the fort had stood. It was there no longer, and, in its place, heaps of charred timber and ashes, the smoke from which still ascended to the sky. There could be no doubt that the fort had been destroyed; perhaps even the enemy were yet in the neighbourhood. Still, some of her friends might have escaped. She turned silently away, resolving to visit the spot as soon as the shades of night should veil her approach. At some little distance was a thick cluster of trees. Retreating to it, she carefully concealed the children and the horses. Then, lying down with her little ones, she waited, with her ear close to the ground, for the return of night.

The hours passed slowly. Not a sound broke the stillness of the evening, save that made by the horses as they stirred up the snow to get at the fresh grass and hay and leaves beneath. She fed her children— they were too well trained to cry out—and, kissing them, and offering up a silent prayer that they may be protected, she set out on her perilous expedition. Her only weapon, besides her axe, was a long knife. Gathering her garments tightly round, as she neared the spot where the fort had stood, she crept silently up. The palisades and log huts were still smouldering, but no human voice could she hear. Cautiously at first, and then louder and louder, she called out the names of Mr McDonald and those she had left with him in the fort. Breathlessly she listened—no one answered to the summons. Again and again she called. A strange cry reached her ears: she knew it well. A sudden breeze at that moment fanned up the embers, and by the bright flames which burst forth she beheld, in the farther-off corner of the fort, a band of prairie wolves wrangling and fighting over a banquet, the nature of which she guessed too well. To that part it was evident her friends had retired, with their faces to the foe, and fought till brought down by overwhelming numbers. At that sad moment a new fear seized her—the cry of the prairie wolf reached her from another point: it came from the wood where she had left her children. She panted with agitation, with dread. Maternal love gave wings to her feet: she flew rather than ran back. She sprang over the fallen logs: she dashed aside the boughs in her way, regardless of the wounds they inflicted. She caught sight of two large wolves stealing towards her children. Were they the first, or had others got there before them? She shrieked out— she shouted—she dashed forward with her weapon to meet the savage brutes. In another moment they would have reached her sleeping infants; but, not waiting her approach, they fled, howling, to join the rest of the pack at the fort. Her children were safe: she clasped them to her bosom. They were all, now, that remained to her on earth. For their sake she resolved to struggle on. But she had a fearful prospect before her. Hundreds of miles from any civilised beings, or from any tribe of natives on whose friendship she could rely; without means of procuring food, starvation stared her in the face. Yet she did not despair. She had the two horses: they must die. She might, perhaps, trap some animals; she must also build a habitation to shelter herself and her little ones. There was work enough before her.

She revolved these matters in her mind during the night. By early dawn she mounted her horse, and, leading the other, rode away from the fatal spot. For two days she travelled on, till she reached a range of hills, among which she believed that she should be safe from discovery. She knew too well that, should she encounter any of her husband's foes, neither her sad history nor her sex could save her from the most cruel treatment—scarcely, indeed, from death. At last she reached the locality she sought, and fixed her abode in a deep hollow in the side of the hill facing the sunny south. She had brought with her some buffalo-robes and deer-skins: with these and a few cedar-branches, and some pine and other bark, she constructed a wigwam by the side of a sparkling stream which burst forth from the mountain-side.

No game was to be found, and she was compelled to kill the horses, and smoke-dry their flesh. Their skins added somewhat to the comfort of her hut. For three weary months the poor widow, with her orphans, dragged on a sad existence. She saw her stock of food decreasing, and she might have to travel far on foot before she could reach a place where more could be obtained. May had arrived, and there was no time to be lost; so, packing the remainder of her horse-flesh, with as many of her blankets, and buffalo-robes, and other articles as she could carry, with her youngest child on her back, while she led the other, she commenced her weary march across that wild region of mountains, forests, and streams now known as British Columbia. To no human being had she spoken since her husband's dying comrade warned her to fly.

For days she toiled on over the rough ground, often having to carry the little Moolak, in addition to his sister. She had barely food sufficient for another day, when several grey wreaths of smoke ascending from a valley told her that a band of friends or foes were encamped below. She hesitated to approach them. "They may be foes; and if they are, will they spare me, wretched though I am?" she said to herself. She looked at her children. "I have no more food for them; I must venture on."

Emerging from a thick wood, she saw close before her a large encampment. She staggered forward, and stood trembling amid the camp. A chief stepped forward from his wigwam and listened to her tale, which was soon told.

"You shall be a sister to us," he answered. "Your people are our friends, and, still more, are your husband's people. I will be as a father to your children. Fear not, sister. Here you shall find rest, and shelter, and food."

The chief kept to his word, and the poor widow was treated with the greatest kindness by him and his people. The summer came, and a brigade of the company's trading canoes passed down the river. The people landed, and spoke to her. She was known to several of them, and they invited her to accompany them. The Indians entreated her to remain with them. She thanked them and said, "No, I will go with my husband's people. When I wedded him I became one of them. I wish, also, that his children should become like them, and be brought up in the faith to which he held."

Wishing, therefore, the kind Indians farewell, she accompanied the voyageurs; and in the far-off settlement to the east, where she ultimately took up her abode under a Christian missionary, she herself learned more clearly to comprehend the truths of the Gospel whose gracious offers she had embraced, while by all around she was respected and beloved.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE TRAWLERS, A TALE OF THE NORTH SEA

THE NORTH SEA FLEET—SUNDAY AT THE FISHING GROUND—THE MISSIONARY SERVICE—THE GALE—A MISHAP TO THE SEA-GULL AND HER CAPTAIN—A CRASH— THE CAPTAIN'S DEATH—ALL LOST BUT TWO BOYS—DOING ONE'S DUTY—MORNING— ALONE WITH A DEAD MAN—BREAKFAST—TO THE PUMPS—SAVED AT LAST.

A fleet of a hundred vessels or more lay together, dotting the surface of the German Ocean, or North Sea, as it is more generally called, upwards of 300 miles from the English shore. They were mostly luggers, of from sixty to eighty tons; each with a crew of from seven to nine men. These vessels formed a part of the North Sea fishing fleet, chiefly belonging to Great Yarmouth and the adjacent ports, engaged in trawling for turbot, soles, brill, and other flat fish, for the supply of the London market.

They had been out there for nearly three weeks, their wants being supplied, and the fish they had caught being taken away from them by several large cutters, which came out from Yarmouth laden with ice, in which the fish were packed, and thus conveyed to the Thames, or to the nearest railway terminus—thence to be transported to London, and dispersed by similar means all over the country. It was Sunday: some of the vessels had their sails set and their trawls down, their crews in their dirty week-day dresses standing ready to haul them on board. Other vessels, which had drawn close together, had their sails furled, their anchors down, and their trawl-nets hung up in the rigging to dry. A flag was flying at the mainmast-head on board two of them. The device was a figure with wings, and an open book with golden leaves in its hand, on a blue ground, and underneath, the words "Missions to Seamen." These two vessels were somewhat apart, and boats from the others were pulling towards them. On board one of the other vessels—the Sea-gull—the crew were collected on deck, in their clean clothing, maybe not so neat and new as they might have worn on shore, however. The boat was alongside; the captain came on deck.

"Well, lads, who'll go with me to worship God with our fellow-Christians?" he asked.

"What's come over the old man, of late?" growled out one of the roughest-looking of the crew. "We used to do very well without all this praying and preaching; and I don't see what good it'll do us."

One or two laughed: but no one answered.

"You'll go, father," said a young lad, Robby Starling, addressing another of the men. "You can't tell what beautiful things are said; and then there's praying and singing; it does one's heart good to hear them sing. Come, father; come."

"It's time to shove off, lads," said the old captain, looking round to see who would go.

Robby again pleaded with his father, who at length stepped into the boat with two other men, his son, another lad, and the captain.

The weather was calm and fine, so that it allowed of an awning to be stretched over the deck, under which seats were arranged for the accommodation of thirty or forty persons. The sailor missionary, who acted as mate of the missionary fishing-vessel, after appropriate prayers had been offered up and psalms sung, urged his hearers, in a loving manner, to accept the gracious offer of salvation while there was yet time.

All were impressed with this address; no one more so than Rob Starling's father and the other men from the Sea-gull. Before leaving the vessel the elder Starling went to the missionary, begged him for his prayers, told him how heartily sorry he was for all his sins, and yet that he was sure his loving Saviour would wash them all away.

Notwithstanding the calmness of the morning, there had been indications all day of a change of weather; and just as the sun went down, the admiral (for so the most experienced captain of the fleet elected to that post is called) hoisted the signal for the vessels to return to port. As the fleet had a week or more to remain out, he had been unwilling to make the signal, though it might have been better had he done so earlier; but even the most experienced are at times mistaken as to the weather at sea.

Those who had been trawling all day hauled their trawls on board; and those which had been brought up, lifted their anchors, and all made sail together.

Before midnight a fierce gale was blowing from the westward, shifting now from the south-west, now from the north-west, and creating a heavy cross-sea. The fishing-vessels took different directions. Some stood to the north, some towards the south, endeavouring, as best they could, to beat up against the gale; but they were quickly dispersed here and there, so that the seamen on board the Sea-gull, with which we have to do, when they looked out into the gloom around, could not discover a single sail near them. Dark seas, with white, foaming crests, rose up on every side, threatening to fall over on the deck of the little vessel, and send her to the bottom. Now she rose to the summit of one of them now she sunk down into the deep trough between them; tumbling and pitching as if the sport of their fury. The lightning flashed vividly; the wind howled in the rigging; the waves roared, and ever and anon struck the vessel as if about to batter in her sides, sending the spray flying over her deck, wetting the crew (who stood holding on to the bulwarks or rigging) through and through.

There was a loud crash, followed by a groan: the mizen yard had parted, and, falling, had struck the old master, Captain Snow, to the deck. His men raised him up; he could not speak. He was carried below, where his injuries could be looked to.

"Robby, my son, do you and Bill Cuffe go below, and look after the old man; this is not a night for boys like you to be on deck," said the elder Starling, who now took the command.

The boys gladly obeyed. Bill Cuffe proposed turning into their berths to go to sleep; but Robby said, "No! we were told to look after the captain."

The men, by a sickly light of a lantern, examined the captain's hurts, as he lay in his berth, but though they could not discover that any limb was broken, they soon saw that he was beyond their skill. They had, too, to hurry on deck to help repair the damage to the rigging. Soon after, Robby and Bill Cuffe heard the men on deck battening down the hatches; it was a sign that things were becoming even more serious than at first. The bulkheads below creaked; the seas thumped and thumped against the sides, and the Sea-gull tumbled and pitched about in every conceivable manner.

"What's going to happen? ain't we all going to the bottom?" asked Bill. "What shall we do, Robby?"

"Do our duty, Bill, whatever happens, as the missionary told us this morning; and pray to God to take care of us all aboard here," answered Robby. "We've now to try to help the captain; I think I hear him speaking."

The boys went to the captain's side. He had returned to consciousness. "What's happened, boy?" he asked: "I can't move hand or foot." Robby told him. "God's will be done," he murmured. "Your father'll do his best—he's a good seaman. He went to service with us this morning. I wish all had gone."

While he was speaking, the vessel received a more furious blow; then there was a rushing noise of water overhead, followed by loud crashes and a few faint shrieks, and then the vessel seemed to bound upwards, and no other sound was heard but that of the seas which washed against the sides. The boys clung to each other in terror; something dreadful had happened, they had been long enough at sea to know that. They dreaded to ask each other; yet what could those shrieks mean? There were no sound of footsteps on deck; the movement of the vessel was different; she no longer went ahead, but lay tossed about by the sea.

"Boys, are you prepared to meet your God?" asked the captain, in a deep tone, making an effort to speak. "Pray with me." The boys went to him and knelt by his side. He tried in vain to lift up his hands. They repeated the solemn words he uttered. His speech grew fainter and fainter, then ceased altogether. A few faint groans followed, then there was an ominous silence. Robby held the lantern to the old man's face. The eyes were open, but all expression had gone.

"Speak, Captain Snow; speak, Mr Snow—oh! do—do!" cried the boy. "He's gone—the captain's dead, Bill," he said, sadly, after waiting for some time and getting no answer. "How sorry father and the rest will be!"

The boys had not even then realised what had happened on deck. Again the lugger was wildly tossed about. Another heavy blow was followed by a rush of water below. It seemed to come in forward. They could stand the suspense no longer, but rushing up the companion-ladder, with their united strength they forced back the hatch, and looked out. Better had it been for them, poor boys, had they remained in ignorance till daylight of what had happened.

The masts were gone; the boat was gone; the bulwarks were gone; and not a human being remained on deck. The sea had swept it clear, with the exception of the companion-hatch, which was low and unusually strong. To this they owed their preservation. Had it been carried away, the vessel must soon have filled; as it was, the fore-hatch had lifted, and allowed the water to pour down. Should it be carried away, the vessel would very probably go down. Mechanically drawing over the hatch again, they returned into the cabin, and sat down, sobbing and wringing their hands.

"Perhaps they're gone away in the boat," suggested Bill Cuffe.

Hobby for an instant checked his tears, but immediately saw the improbability of this. "Oh, no, no! They're all gone! they're all gone!" he repeated again and again. "No one but us two and the dead captain aboard the craft."

"What shall we do, then?" asked Bill, after a long silence.

Hobby looked at his companion earnestly before speaking. "Trust in God, and do our duty," he said, at length.

"Yes, but what is our duty, Robby?"

"I don't see that we can do much, as yet," answered Robby, "but trust in God, and pray to Him. Yes, I've heard say that when people die, their friends go and shut their eyes: the captain's are open; let's go and do that for him."

Together they went back to the body, and while Bill held the lantern, Robby reverently closed the eyes of the dead man.

The Sea-gull continued tumbling about as before, now tossed to the top of one curling wave, now to that of another; while every now and then a fresh rush of water down the fore-hatch made the two boys dread more than ever that she would ere long go to the bottom. They dared not go on deck to see how matters stood, because they knew that if they did they most probably would be swept off it; so they sat down on the floor of the little cabin, and held on by the leg of the table, wishing that daylight would come and the storm cease.

The night seemed a very long one; so, indeed, it was. Wearied out, they at length both slept. How long, they could not tell, but a sudden lurch threw them against the side of the vessel, and they awoke, but with their senses confused, and neither of them able to recollect clearly what had occurred. The light in their lantern had burnt out, and they were in total darkness.

Suddenly Bill exclaimed, "Oh, Robby, where's the captain?"

"Dead," said Robby: "you haven't forgotten that, surely."

"Dead!" exclaimed Bill. "Oh, so he is, and we two here with him alone in the cabin away out in the open sea. I can't stand it, I tell you. Where shall we go? what shall we do?"

Terror caused by thinking of the supernatural is especially infectious. Robby was but a boy. In spite of his better judgment, he allowed his feelings to get the better of it, and he began to tremble like his companion. This was but natural. Brought up as are boys of his class, who could blame him? There were the two lads, with their dead captain, rolling about in a leaky craft during that fierce gale out in the North Sea. They dared not go on deck; they feared to remain in the cabin: they crept over as far as they could from the side where the dead body lay. Not till Robby again thought of praying did he regain his composure. With the hatches battened down and the skylight covered over, daylight could not penetrate in the little cabin. The boys forgot this, and sat on, Robby at length again falling asleep, but Bill's fears kept him awake. After a time it seemed to him that the vessel did not tumble about so much; he was very hungry also, and he thought that it must be day, and as he was afraid of moving by himself, he awoke Robby, and together they groped their way to the companion-hatch, and, unfastening it, the bright sunlight streamed full on their dazzled eyes. The sea had gone down somewhat, but still it washed over the deck, which was wet and slippery, and so they were afraid to venture on it lest they should be washed off. Hobby looked around, in the faint hope that some one might be yet clinging to the vessel, but not one of the seven men they had left there when they went below remained. Then he scanned the horizon on every side. Foam-crested, dancing waves alone were to be seen. Not a sail appeared. Bill now cried out for food. They could venture to leave the companion-hatch off, and by the light which streamed down it they were able to hunt about for some. They soon found some cold meat and biscuit, and fortunately also a jar of water, and, with these things, quickly appeased their hunger. They had no fear, indeed, of starving, for there were plenty of fish on board, and an ample supply of provisions of all sorts, but the cooking-place was forward, and they could not venture along the deck to get to it. After their meal their spirits improved. Hobby remarked with confidence that, as the vessel had floated so long through the worst part of the gale, she might still weather it out altogether. They could hear, however, by the rushing sound inside as she rolled, that there was a great deal of water in her. "We must try and pump it out," said Robby. To do that they must wait till they could get forward, where the brake of the pump was kept.

All this time the wind was falling and the sea was going down, and at last Robby thought that by working their way along the masts they might reach the forehatch. He led, Bill followed. The hatch was found partially off. Fortunately, it had not been altogether washed away, for, as it was, large quantities of water had got down and damaged everything in the forecastle. Bill, again frightened by the damage the vessel had sustained, thought that pumping would be of no use.

"It's our duty to pump this vessel—and do so I will, if I can," said Robby, firmly.

The pump, not without difficulty, was rigged, and they set to work manfully. It was very hard work too, but it was satisfactory to see the clear water rushing out through the scuppers, and to believe that none was coming in. They pumped and pumped away till they were weary, and then went back into the cabin to lie down awhile.

They had now got more accustomed to the sight of their dead captain, so that even Bill did not object to passing the night in the cabin. The next day they again pumped away, and had entirely freed the vessel by noon. Having nothing more to do, their thoughts turned towards the possibility of reaching England. They anxiously scanned the horizon in the hopes of seeing some vessel approaching them. A sail was seen at length—they thought that she was coming towards them, but she stood away; then another and another came in sight; but their vessel was not perceived. Another night came on. As the sun went down, the sky again became very threatening. Before midnight the gale had returned. There was no compass below, so the boys did not know from what quarter it blew. Poor Bill began really to despair, and wanted to get into a berth and go to sleep till he was drowned.

"No, don't do that," said Robby. "While there's life there's hope; and, depend on't, God knows what's best for us."

The storm raged furiously, but the little vessel, freed from water, and light as a cask, floated like a cork driven before it. At length the gale ceased, and the sea went down, and the two boys went on deck. The coast was in sight—they knew it well—they were off Lowestoft. Boats came off—the Sea-gull was towed into the Yar. It became known how Robby and Bill had kept the vessel afloat by pumping her out before the second gale came on. A subscription was raised for Robby and his mother; and, though he is very young, he commands a vessel of his own, still firm in the belief which he endeavours to impress on others, that "God knows what is best for us."

THE END