The crew of the Avenger were summoned aft, and called upon to decide as to the measures they considered to be most advisable. They preferred weighing the anchor and running into the bay, where they would be able to defend the schooner, in their opinion, much better than by remaining where they were.

The crew of the pirate schooner weighed the anchor, and continued their precarious course; the breeze had freshened, and the water was in strong ripples, so that they could no longer see the danger beneath her bottom. In the meantime, the sloop of war and Enterprise continued to turn to windward outside the reef.

By noon the wind had considerably increased, and the breakers now turned and broke in wild foam over the coral reefs in every direction. The sail was still more reduced on board the Avenger, and her difficulties increased from the rapidity of her motion.

A storm-jib was set, and the others hauled down; yet even under this small sail she flew before the wind.

Cain stood at the bowsprit, giving his directions to the helmsman. More than once they had grazed the rocks and were clear again. Spars were towed astern, and every means resorted to, to check her way. They had no guide but the breaking of the wild water on each side of them.

'Why should not Hawkhurst, who knows the passage so well, be made to pilot us?' said the boatswain to those who were near him on the forecastle.

'To be sure! let's have him up!' cried several of the crew; and some of them went down below.

In a minute they reappeared with Hawkhurst, whom they led forward. He did not make any resistance, and the crew demanded that he should pilot the vessel.

'And suppose I will not?' said Hawkhurst coolly.

'Then you lose your passage, that's all,' replied the boatswain. 'Is it not so, my lads?' continued he, appealing to the crew.

'Yes; either take us safe in, or—overboard,' replied several.

'I do not mind that threat, my lads,' replied Hawkhurst; 'you have all known me as a good man and true, and it's not likely that I shall desert you now. Well, since your captain there cannot save you, I suppose I must; but,' exclaimed he, looking about him, 'how's this? We are out of the passage already. Yes—and whether we can get into it again I cannot tell.'

'We are not out of the passage,' said Cain; 'you know we are not.'

'Well then, if the captain knows better than I, he had better take you through,' rejoined Hawkhurst.

But the crew thought differently, and insisted that Hawkhurst, who well knew the channel, should take charge. Cain retired aft, as Hawkhurst went out on the bowsprit.

'I will do my best, my lads,' said Hawkhurst; 'but recollect, if we strike in trying to get into the right channel, do not blame me. Starboard a little—starboard yet—steady, so—there's the true passage, my lads!' cried he, pointing to some smoother water between the breakers; 'port a little—steady.'

But Hawkhurst, who knew that he was to be put on shore as soon as convenient, had resolved to lose the schooner, even if his own life were forfeited, and he was now running her out of the passage on the rocks. A minute after he had conned her, she struck heavily again and again. The third time she struck, she came broadside to the wind and heeled over; a sharp coral rock found its way through her slight timbers and planking, and the water poured in rapidly.

During this there was a dead silence on the part of the marauders.

'My lads,' said Hawkhurst, 'I have done my best, and now you may throw me overboard if you please. It was not my fault, but his,' continued he, pointing to the captain.

'It is of little consequence whose fault it was, Mr. Hawkhurst,' replied Cain; 'we will settle that point by and by; at present we have too much on our hands. Out boats, men! as fast as you can, and let every man provide himself with arms and ammunition. Be cool! the schooner is fixed hard enough, and will not go down; we shall save everything by and by.'

The pirates obeyed the orders of the captain. The three boats were hoisted out and lowered down. In the first were placed all the wounded men and Clara d'Alfarez, who was assisted up by Francisco. As soon as the men had provided themselves with arms, Francisco, to protect Clara, offered to take charge of her, and the boat shoved off.

The men-of-war had seen the Avenger strike on the rocks, and the preparations of the crew to take to their boats. They immediately hove-to, hoisted out and manned their own boats, with the hopes of cutting them off before they could gain the island and prepare for a vigorous defence; for, although the vessels could not approach the reefs, there was sufficient water in many places for the boats to pass over them. Shortly after Francisco, in the first boat, had shoved off from the Avenger, the boats of the men-of-war were darting through the surf to intercept them. The pirates perceived this, and hastened their arrangements; a second boat soon left her, and into that Hawkhurst leaped as it was shoving off. Cain remained on board, going round the lower decks to ascertain if any of the wounded men were left; he then quitted the schooner in the last boat and followed the others, being about a quarter of a mile astern of the second, in which Hawkhurst had secured his place.

At the time that Cain quitted the schooner, it was difficult to say whether the men-of-war's boats would succeed in intercepting any of the pirates' boats. Both parties exerted themselves to their utmost; and when the first boat, with Francisco and Clara, landed, the headmost of the assailants was not much more than half a mile from them; but shallow water intervening there was a delay, which was favourable to the pirates. Hawkhurst landed in his boat as the launch of the Comus fired her eighteen-pound carronade. The last boat was yet two hundred yards from the beach, when another shot from the Comus's launch, which had been unable hitherto to find a passage through the reef, struck her on the counter, and she filled and went down.

'He is gone!' exclaimed Francisco, who had led Clara to a cave, and stood at the mouth of it to protect her; 'they have sunk his boat—no, he is swimming to the shore, and will be here now, long before the English seamen can land.'

This was true. Cain was breasting the water manfully, making for a small cove nearer to where the boat was sunk than the one in which Francisco had landed with Clara and the wounded men, and divided from the other by a ridge of rocks which separated the sandy beach, and extended some way into the water before they were submerged. Francisco could easily distinguish the pirate captain from the other men, who also were swimming for the beach; for Cain was far ahead of them, and as he gained nearer to the shore he was shut from Francisco's sight by the ridge of rocks. Francisco, anxious for his safety, climbed up the rocks and was watching. Cain was within a few yards of the beach when there was a report of a musket; the pirate captain was seen to raise his body convulsively half out of the water—he floundered—the clear blue wave was discoloured—he sank, and was seen no more.

Francisco darted forward from the rocks, and perceived Hawkhurst standing beneath them with the musket in his hand, which he was recharging.

'Villain!' exclaimed Francisco, 'you shall account for this.'

Hawkhurst had reprimed his musket and shut the pan.

'Not to you,' replied Hawkhurst, levelling his piece, and taking aim at Francisco.

The ball struck Francisco on the breast; he reeled back from his position, staggered across the sand, gained the cave, and fell at the feet of Clara.



'O God!' exclaimed the poor girl, 'are you hurt? who is there, then, to protect me?'

'I hardly know,' replied Francisco faintly; and, at intervals, 'I feel no wound. I feel stronger;' and Francisco put his hand to his heart.

Clara opened his vest, and found that the packet given to Francisco by Cain, and which he had deposited in his breast, had been struck by the bullet, which had done him no injury further than the violent concussion of the blow—notwithstanding he was faint from the shock, and his head fell upon Clara's bosom.

But we must relate the proceedings of those who were mixed up in this exciting scene. Edward Templemore had watched from his vessel, with an eager and painful curiosity, the motions of the schooner—her running on the rocks, and the subsequent actions of the intrepid marauders. The long telescope enabled him to perceive distinctly all that passed, and his feelings were increased into a paroxysm of agony when his straining eyes beheld the white and fluttering habiliments of a female for a moment at the gunwale of the stranded vessel—her descent, as it appeared to him, nothing loth, into the boat—the arms held out to receive, and the extension of hers to meet those offered. Could it be Clara? Where was the reluctance, the unavailing attempts at resistance, which should have characterised her situation? Excited by feelings which he dared not analyse, he threw down his glass, and, seizing his sword, sprang into his boat, which was ready manned alongside, desiring the others to follow him. For once, and the only time in his existence when approaching the enemy, did he feel his heart sink within him—a cold tremor ran through his whole frame, and as he called to mind the loose morals and desperate habits of the pirates, horrible thoughts entered his imagination. As he neared the shore, he stood up in the stern-sheets of the boat, pale, haggard, and with trembling lips; and the intensity of his feelings would have been intolerable but for a more violent thirst for revenge. He clenched his sword, while the quick throbs of his heart seemed, at every pulsation, to repeat to him his thoughts of blood! blood! blood! He approached the small bay, and perceived that there was a female at the mouth of the cave—nearer and nearer, and he was certain that it was his Clara—her name was on his lips when he heard the two shots fired one after another by Hawkhurst—he saw the retreat and fall of Francisco—when, madness to behold! he perceived Clara rush forward, and there lay the young man supported by her, and with his head upon her bosom. Could he believe what he saw? could she really be his betrothed? Yes, there she was, supporting the handsome figure of a young man, and that man a pirate—she had even put her hand into his vest, and was now watching over his reviving form. Edward could bear no more; he covered his eyes, and now, maddened with jealousy, in a voice of thunder he called out—

'Give way, my lads! for your lives, give way!'

The gig was within half a dozen strokes of the oar from the beach, and Clara, unconscious of wrong, had just taken the packet of papers from Francisco's vest, when Hawkhurst made his appearance from behind the rocks which separated the two little sandy coves. Francisco had recovered his breath, and, perceiving the approach of Hawkhurst, he sprang upon his feet to recover his musket; but, before he could succeed, Hawkhurst had closed in with him, and a short and dreadful struggle ensued. It would soon have terminated fatally to Francisco, for the superior strength of Hawkhurst had enabled him to bear down the body of his opponent with his knee, and he was fast strangling him by twisting his handkerchief round his throat, while Clara shrieked, and attempted in vain to tear the pirate from him. As the prostrate Francisco was fast blackening into a corpse, and the maiden screamed for pity, and became frantic in her efforts for his rescue, the boat dashed high up on the sand; and, with the bound of a maddened tiger, Edward sprang upon Hawkhurst, tearing him down on his back, and severing his wrist with his sword-blade until his hold of Francisco was relaxed, and he wrestled in his own defence.

'Seize him, my lads!' said Edward, pointing with his left hand to Hawkhurst; as with his sword directed to the body of Francisco he bitterly continued, 'This victim is mine!' But, whatever were his intentions, they were frustrated by Clara's recognition, who shrieked out, 'My Edward!' sprang into his arms, and was immediately in a state of insensibility.

The seamen who had secured Hawkhurst looked upon the scene with curious astonishment, while Edward waited with mingled feelings of impatience and doubt for Clara's recovery; he wished to be assured by her that he was mistaken, and he turned again and again from her face to that of Francisco, who was fast recovering. During this painful suspense, Hawkhurst was bound and made to sit down.



'Edward! dear Edward!' said Clara at last, in a faint voice, clinging more closely to him; 'and am I then rescued by thee, dearest!'

Edward felt the appeal; but his jealousy had not yet subsided.

'Who is that, Clara?' said he sternly.

'It is Francisco. No pirate, Edward, but my preserver.'

'Ha, ha!' laughed Hawkhurst, with a bitter sneer, for he perceived how matters stood.

Edward Templemore turned towards him with an inquiring look.

'Ha, ha!' continued Hawkhurst; 'why, he is the captain's son! No pirate, eh? Well, what will women not swear to, to save those they dote upon!'

'If the captain's son,' said Edward, 'why were you contending?'

'Because just now I shot his scoundrel father.'

'Edward!' said Clara solemnly, 'this is no time for explanation; but, as I hope for mercy, what I have said is true; believe not that villain.'

'Yes,' said Francisco, who was now sitting up, 'believe him when he says that he shot the captain, for that is true; but, sir, if you value your own peace of mind, believe nothing to the prejudice of that young lady.'

'I hardly know what to believe,' muttered Edward Templemore; 'but, as the lady says, this is no time for explanation. With your permission, madam,' said he to Clara, 'my coxswain will see you in safety on board of the schooner, or the other vessel, if you prefer it; my duty will not allow me to accompany you.'

Clara darted a reproachful yet fond look on Edward, as, with swimming eyes, she was led by the coxswain to the boat, which had been joined by the launch of the Comus, the crew of which were, with their officers, wading to the beach. The men of the gig remained until they had given Hawkhurst and Francisco in charge of the other seamen, and then shoved off with Clara for the schooner. Edward Templemore gave one look at the gig as it conveyed Clara on board, and ordering Hawkhurst and Francisco to be taken to the launch, and a guard to be kept over them, went up, with the remainder of the men, in pursuit of the pirates.

During the scene we have described, the other boats of the men-of-war had landed on the island, and the Avenger's crew, deprived of their leaders, and scattered in every direction, were many of them slain or captured. In about two hours it was supposed that the majority of the pirates had been accounted for, and the prisoners being now very numerous, it was decided that the boats should return with them to the Comus, the captain of which vessel, as commanding officer, would then issue orders as to their future proceedings.

The captured pirates, when mustered on the deck of the Comus, amounted to nearly sixty, out of which number one-half were those who had been sent on shore wounded, and had surrendered without resistance. Of killed there were fifteen; and it was conjectured that as many more had been drowned in the boat when she was sunk by the shot from the carronade of the launch. Although, by the account given by the captured pirates, the majority were secured, yet there was reason to suppose that some were still left on the island concealed in the caves.

As the captain of the Comus had orders to return as soon as possible, he decided to sail immediately for Port Royal with the prisoners, leaving the Enterprise to secure the remainder, if there were any, and recover anything of value which might be left in the wreck of the Avenger, and then to destroy her.

With the usual celerity of the service these orders were obeyed. The pirates, among whom Francisco was included, were secured, the boats hoisted up, and in half an hour the Comus displayed her ensign, and made all sail on a wind, leaving Edward Templemore, with the Enterprise, at the back of the reef, to perform the duties entailed upon him; and Clara, who was on board of the schooner, to remove the suspicion and jealousy which had arisen in the bosom of her lover.



CHAPTER XVII

THE TRIAL

In a week, the Comus arrived at Port Royal, and the captain went up to the Penn to inform the admiral of the successful result of the expedition.

'Thank God,' said the admiral, 'we have caught these villains at last! A little hanging will do them no harm. The captain, you say, was drowned?'

'So it is reported, sir,' replied Captain Manly; 'he was in the last boat which left the schooner, and she was sunk by a shot from the launch.'

'I am sorry for that; the death was too good for him. However, we must make an example of the rest; they must be tried by the Admiralty Court, which has the jurisdiction of the high seas. Send them on shore, Manly, and we wash our hands of them.'

'Very good, sir; but there are still some left on the island, we have reason to believe, and the Enterprise is in search of them.'

'By the bye, did Templemore find his lady?'

'Oh yes, sir; and—all's right, I believe: but I had very little to say to him on the subject.'

'Humph!' replied the admiral. 'I am glad to hear it. Well, send them on shore, Manly, to the proper authorities. If any more be found, they must be hung afterwards when Templemore brings them in. I am more pleased at having secured these scoundrels than if we had taken a French frigate.'

About three weeks after this conversation, the secretary reported to the admiral that the Enterprise had made her number outside; but that she was becalmed, and would not probably be in until the evening.

'That's a pity,' replied the admiral; 'for the pirates are to be tried this morning. He may have more of them on board.'

'Very true, sir; but the trial will hardly be over to-day: the judge will not be in court till one o'clock at the soonest.'

'It's of little consequence, certainly; as it is, there are so many that they must be hanged by divisions. However, as he is within signal distance, let them telegraph 'Pirates now on trial.' He can pull on shore in his gig, if he pleases.'

It was about noon on the same day that the pirates, and among them Francisco, escorted by a strong guard, were conducted to the court-house and placed at the bar. The court-house was crowded to excess, for the interest excited was intense.

Many of them who had been wounded in the attack upon the property of Don Cumanos, and afterwards captured, had died in their confinement. Still forty-five were placed at the bar; and their picturesque costume, their bearded faces, and the atrocities which they had committed, created in those present a sensation of anxiety mingled with horror and indignation.

Two of the youngest amongst them had been permitted to turn king's evidence. They had been on board of the Avenger but a few months; still their testimony as to the murder of the crews of three West India ships, and the attack upon the property of Don Cumanos, was quite sufficient to condemn the remainder.

Much time was necessarily expended in going through the forms of the court; in the pirates answering to their various names; and, lastly, in taking down the detailed evidence of the above men. It was late when the evidence was read over to the pirates, and they were asked if they had anything to offer in their defence. The question was repeated by the judge; when Hawkhurst was the first to speak. To save himself he could scarcely hope; his only object was to prevent Francisco pleading his cause successfully, and escaping the same disgraceful death.



Hawkhurst declared that he had been some time on board the Avenger, but that he had been taken out of a vessel and forced to serve against his will, as could be proved by the captain's son, who stood there (pointing to Francisco), who had been in the schooner since her first fitting out: that he had always opposed the captain, who would not part with him, because he was the only one on board who was competent to navigate the schooner: that he had intended to rise against him, and take the vessel, having often stimulated the crew so to do; and that, as the other men, as well as the captain's son, could prove, if they choose, he actually was in confinement for that attempt when the schooner was entering the passage to the Caicos; and that he was only released because he was acquainted with the passage, and threatened to be thrown overboard if he did not take her in: that, at every risk, he had run her on the rocks; and aware that the captain would murder him, he had shot Cain as he was swimming to the shore, as the captain's son could prove; for he had taxed him with it, and he was actually struggling with him for life, when the officers and boats' crew separated them, and made them both prisoners: that he hardly expected that Francisco, the captain's son, would tell the truth to save him, as he was his bitter enemy, and in the business at the Magdalen river, which had been long planned (for Francisco had been sent on shore under the pretence of being wrecked, but, in fact, to ascertain where the booty was, and to assist the pirates in their attack), Francisco had taken the opportunity of putting a bullet through his shoulder, which was well known to the other pirates, and Francisco could not venture to deny. He trusted that the court would order the torture to Francisco, and then he would probably speak the truth; at all events, let him speak now.

When Hawkhurst had ceased to address the court, there was an anxious pause for some minutes. The day was fast declining, and most parts of the spacious court-house were already deeply immersed in gloom; while the light, sober, solemn, and almost sad, gleamed upon the savage and reckless countenances of the prisoners at the bar. The sun had sunk down behind a mass of heavy yet gorgeous clouds, fringing their edges with molten gold. Hawkhurst had spoken fluently and energetically, and there was an appearance of almost honesty in his coarse and deep-toned voice. Even the occasional oaths with which his speech was garnished, but which we have omitted, seemed to be pronounced more in sincerity than in blasphemy, and gave a more forcible impression to his narrative.

We have said that when he concluded there was a profound silence; and amid the fast-falling shadows of the evening, those who were present began to feel, for the first time, the awful importance of the drama before them, the number of lives which were trembling upon the verge of existence, depending upon the single word of 'Guilty.' This painful silence, this harrowing suspense, was at last broken by a restrained sob from a female; but, owing to the obscurity involving the body of the court, her person could not be distinguished. The wail of woman so unexpected—for who could there be of that sex interested in the fate of these desperate men?—touched the heart of its auditors, and appeared to sow the first seeds of compassionate and humane feeling among those who had hitherto expressed and felt nothing but indignation towards the prisoners.

The judge upon the bench, the counsel at the bar, and the jury impannelled in their box, felt the force of the appeal; and it softened down the evil impression created by the address of Hawkhurst against the youthful Francisco. The eyes of all were now directed towards the one doubly accused—accused not only by the public prosecutor, but even by his associate in crime—and the survey was favourable. They acknowledged that he was one whose personal qualities might indeed challenge the love of woman in his pride, and her lament in his disgrace; and as their regard was directed towards him, the sun, which had been obscured, now pierced through a break in the mass of clouds, and threw a portion of his glorious beams from a window opposite upon him, and him alone, while all the other prisoners who surrounded him were buried more or less in deep shadow. It was at once evident that his associates were bold yet commonplace villains—men who owed their courage, their only virtue perhaps, to their habits, to their physical organisation, or the influence of those around them. They were mere human butchers, with the only adjunct that, now that the trade was to be exercised upon themselves, they could bear it with sullen apathy—a feeling how far removed from true fortitude! Even Hawkhurst, though more commanding than the rest, with all his daring mien and scowl of defiance, looked nothing more than a distinguished ruffian. With the exception of Francisco, the prisoners had wholly neglected their personal appearance; and in them the squalid and sordid look of the mendicant seemed allied with the ferocity of the murderer.

Francisco was not only an exception, but formed a beautiful contrast to the others; and as the evening beams lighted up his figure, he stood at the bar, if not with all the splendour of a hero of romance, certainly a most picturesque and interesting personage, elegantly if not richly attired.

The low sobs at intervals repeated, as if impossible to be checked, seemed to rouse and call him to a sense of the important part which he was called upon to act in the tragedy there and then performing. His face was pale, yet composed; his mien at once proud and sorrowful; his eye was bright, yet his glance was not upon those in court, but far away, fixed, like an eagle's, upon the gorgeous beams of the setting sun, which glowed upon him through the window that was in front of him.

At last the voice of Francisco was heard, and all in that wide court started at the sound—deep, full, and melodious as the evening chimes. The ears of those present had, in the profound silence, but just recovered from the harsh, deep-toned, and barbarous idiom of Hawkhurst's address, when the clear, silvery, yet manly voice of Francisco riveted their attention. The jury stretched forth their heads, the counsel and all in court turned anxiously round towards the prisoner, even the judge held up his forefinger to intimate his wish for perfect silence.

'My lord and gentlemen,' commenced Francisco, 'when I first found myself in this degrading situation, I had not thought to have spoken or to have uttered one word in my defence. He that has just now accused me has recommended the torture to be applied; he has already had his wish, for what torture can be more agonising than to find myself where I now am? So tortured, indeed, have I been through a short yet wretched life, that I have often felt that anything short of self-destruction which would release me would be a blessing; but within these few minutes I have been made to acknowledge that I have still feelings in unison with my fellow-creatures; that I am not yet fit for death, and all too young, too unprepared to die: for who would not reluctantly leave this world while there is such a beauteous sky to love and look upon, or while there is one female breast who holds him innocent, and has evinced her pity for his misfortunes? Yes, my lord! mercy, and pity, and compassion have not yet fled from earth; and therefore do I feel I am too young to die. God forgive me! but I thought they had—for never have they been shown in those with whom by fate I have been connected; and it has been from this conviction that I have so often longed for death. And now may that righteous God who judges us not here, but hereafter, enable me to prove that I do not deserve an ignominious punishment from my fellow-sinners—men!

'My lord, I know not the subtleties of the laws, nor the intricacy of pleadings. First, let me assert that I have never robbed; but I have restored unto the plundered: I have never murdered; but I have stood between the assassin's knife and his victim. For this have I been hated and reviled by my associates, and for this is my life now threatened by those laws against which I never have offended. The man who last addressed you has told you that I am the pirate captain's son; it is the assertion of the only irreclaimable and utterly remorseless villain among those who now stand before you to be judged—the assertion of one whose glory, whose joy, whose solace, has been blood-shedding.

'My lord, I had it from the mouth of the captain himself, previous to his murder by that man, that I was not his son. His son! thank God, not so. Connected with him and in his power I was most certainly and most incomprehensibly. Before he died, he delivered me a packet that would have told me who I am; but I have lost it, and deeply have I felt the loss. One only fact I gained from him whom they would call my father, which is, that with his own hand he slew—yes, basely slew—my mother.'

The address of Francisco was here interrupted by a low deep groan of anguish, which startled the whole audience. It was now quite dark, and the judge ordered the court to be lighted previous to the defence being continued. The impatience and anxiety of those present were shown in low murmurs of communication until the lights were brought in. The word 'Silence!' from the judge produced an immediate obedience, and the prisoner was ordered to proceed.

Francisco then continued his address, commencing with the remembrances of his earliest childhood. As he warmed with his subject he became more eloquent; his action became energetical without violence; and the pallid and modest youth gradually grew into the impassioned and inspired orator. He recapitulated rapidly, yet distinctly and with terrible force, all the startling events in his fearful life. There was truth in the tones of his voice, there was conviction in his animated countenance, there was innocence in his open and expressive brow.

All who heard believed; and scarcely had he concluded his address, when the jury appeared impatient to rise and give their verdict in his favour. But the judge stood up, and addressing the jury, told them that it was his most painful duty to remind them that as yet they had heard but assertion, beautiful and almost convincing assertion truly; but still it was not proof.

'Alas!' observed Francisco, 'what evidence can I bring forward, except the evidence of those around me at the bar, which will not be admitted? Can I recall the dead from the grave? Can I expect those who have been murdered to rise again to assert my innocence? Can I expect that Don Cumanos will appear from distant leagues to give evidence on my behalf? Alas! he knows not how I am situated, or he would have flown to my succour. No, no; not even can I expect that the sweet Spanish maiden, the last to whom I offered my protection, will appear in such a place as this to meet the bold gaze of hundreds!'

'She is here!' replied a manly voice; and a passage was made through the crowd; and Clara, supported by Edward Templemore, dressed in his uniform, was ushered into the box for the witnesses. The appearance of the fair girl, who looked round her with alarm, created a great sensation. As soon as she was sufficiently composed she was sworn, and gave her evidence as to Francisco's behaviour during the time that she was a prisoner on board of the Avenger. She produced the packet which had saved the life of Francisco, and substantiated a great part of his defence. She extolled his kindness and his generosity; and when she had concluded every one asked of himself, 'Can this young man be a pirate and a murderer?' The reply was, 'It is impossible.'



'My lord,' said Edward Templemore, 'I request permission to ask the prisoner a question. When I was on board of the wreck of the Avenger, I found this book floating in the cabin. I wish to ask the prisoner whether, as that young lady has informed me, it is his?' And Edward Templemore produced the Bible.

'It is mine,' replied Francisco.

'May I ask you by what means it came into your possession?'

'It is the only relic left of one who is now no more. It was the consolation of my murdered mother; it has since been mine. Give it to me, sir; I may probably need its support now more than ever.'

'Was your mother murdered, say you?' cried Edward Templemore, with much agitation.

'I have already said so; and I now repeat it.'

The judge again rose, and recapitulated the evidence to the jury. Evidently friendly to Francisco, he was obliged to point out to them, that although the evidence of the young lady had produced much which might be offered in extenuation, and induce him to submit it to His Majesty, in hopes of his gracious pardon after condemnation, yet, that many acts in which the prisoner had been involved had endangered his life, and no testimony had been brought forward to prove that he had not, at one time, acted with the pirates, although he might since have repented. They would, of course, remember that the evidence of the mate, Hawkhurst, was not of any value, and must dismiss any impression which it might have made against Francisco. At the same time he had the unpleasant duty to point out that the evidence of the Spanish lady was so far prejudicial, that it pointed out the good terms subsisting between the young man and the pirate captain. Much as he was interested in his fate, he must reluctantly remind the jury that the evidence on the whole was not sufficient to clear the prisoner; and he considered it their duty to return a verdict of guilty against all the prisoners at the bar.

'My lord,' said Edward Templemore, a few seconds after the judge had resumed his seat, 'may not the contents of this packet, the seal of which I have not ventured to break, afford some evidence in favour of the prisoner? Have you any objection that it should be opened previous to the jury delivering their verdict?'

'None,' replied the judge; 'but what are its supposed contents?'

'The contents, my lord,' replied Francisco, 'are in the writing of the pirate captain. He delivered that packet into my hands previous to our quitting the schooner, stating that it would inform me who were my parents. My lord, in my present situation I claim that packet, and refuse that its contents shall be read in court. If I am to die an ignominious death, at least those who are connected with me shall not have to blush at my disgrace, for the secret of my parentage shall die with me.'

'Nay—nay; be ruled by me,' replied Edward Templemore, with much emotion. 'In the narrative, the handwriting of which can be proved by the king's evidence, there may be acknowledgment of all you have stated, and it will be received as evidence; will it not, my lord?'

'If the handwriting is proved, I should think it may,' replied the judge; 'particularly as the lady was present when the packet was delivered, and heard the captain's assertion. Will you allow it to be offered as evidence, young man?'

'No, my lord,' replied Francisco; 'unless I have permission first to peruse it myself. I will not have its contents divulged, unless I am sure of an honourable acquittal. The jury must deliver their verdict.'

The jury turned round to consult, during which Edward Templemore walked to Francisco, accompanied by Clara, to entreat him to allow the packet to be opened; but Francisco was firm against both their entreaties. At last the foreman of the jury rose to deliver the verdict. A solemn and awful silence prevailed throughout the court; the suspense was painful to a degree.

'My lord,' said the foreman of the jury, 'our verdict is——'

'Stop, sir!' said Edward Templemore, as he clasped one arm round the astonished Francisco, and extended the other towards the foreman. 'Stop, sir! harm him not! for he is my brother!'

'And my preserver!' cried Clara, kneeling on the other side of Francisco, and holding up her hands in supplication.

The announcement was electrical; the foreman dropped into his seat; the judge and whole court were in mute astonishment. The dead silence was followed by confusion, which, after a time, the judge in vain attempted to put a stop to.

Edward Templemore, Clara, and Francisco, continued to form the same group; and never was there one more beautiful. And now that they were together, every one in court perceived the strong resemblance between the two young men.

Francisco's complexion was darker than Edward's, from his constant exposure, from infancy, to tropical sun; but the features of the two were the same.

It was some time before the judge could obtain silence in the court; and when it had been obtained, he was himself puzzled how to proceed.

Edward and Francisco, who had exchanged a few words, were now standing side by side.

'My lord,' said Edward Templemore, 'the prisoner consents that the packet shall be opened.'

'I do,' said Francisco mournfully; 'although I have but little hope from its contents. Alas! now that I have everything to live for—now that I cling to life, I feel as if every chance was gone! The days of miracles have passed; and nothing but the miracle of the reappearance of the pirate captain from the grave can prove my innocence.'

'He reappears from the grave to prove thine innocence, Francisco!' said a deep, hollow voice, which startled the whole court, and most of all Hawkhurst and the prisoners at the bar. Still more did fear and horror distort their countenances when into the witness-box stalked the giant form of Cain.

But it was no longer the figure which we have described in the commencement of this narrative; his beard had been removed, and he was pale, wan, and emaciated. His sunken eyes, his hollow cheek, and a short cough, which interrupted his speech, proved that his days were nearly at a close.

'My lord,' said Cain, addressing the judge, 'I am the pirate Cain, and was the captain of the Avenger! Still am I free! I come here voluntarily, that I may attest the innocence of that young man! As yet, my hand has not known the manacle, nor my feet the gyves! I am not a prisoner, nor included in the indictment, and at present my evidence is good. None know me in this court, except those whose testimony, as prisoners, is unavailing; and therefore, to save that boy, and only to save him, I demand that I may be sworn.'

The oath was administered with more than usual solemnity.

'My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, I have been in court since the commencement of the trial, and I declare that every word which Francisco has uttered in his own defence is true. He is totally innocent of any act of piracy or murder; the packet would, indeed, have proved as much: but in that packet there are secrets which I wished to remain unknown to all but Francisco; and, rather than it should be opened, I have come forward myself. How that young officer discovered that Francisco is his brother I know not; but if he also is the son of Cecilia Templemore, it is true. But the packet will explain all.

'And now, my lords, that my evidence is received, I am content; I have done one good deed before I die, and I surrender myself, as a pirate and a foul murderer, to justice. True, my life is nearly closed—thanks to that villain there; but I prefer that I should meet that death I merit, as an expiation of my many deeds of guilt.'

Cain then turned to Hawkhurst, who was close to him, but the mate appeared to be in a state of stupor; he had not recovered from his first terror, and still imagined the appearance of Cain to be supernatural.

'Villain!' exclaimed Cain, putting his mouth close to Hawkhurst's ear; 'doubly d—d villain! thou'lt die like a dog, and unrevenged! The boy is safe, and I'm alive!'

'Art thou really living?' said Hawkhurst, recovering from his fear.

'Yes, living—yes, flesh and blood; feel, wretch! feel this arm, and be convinced; thou hast felt the power of it before now,' continued Cain sarcastically. 'And now, my lord, I have done; Francisco, fare thee well! I loved thee, and have proved my love. Hate not then my memory, and forgive me—yes, forgive me when I'm no more,' said Cain, who then turned his eyes to the ceiling of the court-house. 'Yes, there she is, Francisco!—there she is! and see,' cried he, extending both arms above his head, 'she smiles upon—yes, Francisco, your sainted mother smiles and pardons——'



The sentence was not finished; for Hawkhurst, when Cain's arms were upheld, perceived his knife in his girdle, and, with the rapidity of thought, he drew it out, and passed it through the body of the pirate captain.

Cain fell heavily on the floor, while the court was again in confusion. Hawkhurst was secured, and Cain raised from the ground.

'I thank thee, Hawkhurst!' said Cain, in an expiring voice; 'another murder thou hast to answer for; and you have saved me from the disgrace, not of the gallows, but of the gallows in thy company. Francisco, boy, farewell!' and Cain groaned deeply, and expired.

Thus perished the renowned pirate captain, who in his life had shed so much blood, and whose death produced another murder. 'Blood for blood!'

The body was removed; and it now remained but for the jury to give their verdict. All the prisoners were found guilty, with the exception of Francisco, who left the dock accompanied by his newly-found brother, and the congratulations of every individual who could gain access to him.



CHAPTER XVIII

CONCLUSION

Our first object will be to explain to the reader by what means Edward Templemore was induced to surmise that in Francisco, whom he had considered as a rival, he had found a brother; and also to account for the reappearance of the pirate Cain.

In pursuance of his orders, Edward Templemore had proceeded on board of the wreck of the Avenger; and while his men were employed in collecting articles of great value which were on board of her, he had descended into the cabin, which was partly under water. Here he had picked up a book floating near the lockers, and on examination found it to be a Bible.

Surprised at seeing such a book on board of a pirate, he had taken it with him when he returned to the Enterprise, and had shown it to Clara, who immediately recognised it as the property of Francisco. The book was saturated with the salt water, and as Edward mechanically turned over the pages, he referred to the title-page to see if there was any name upon it. There was not; but he observed that the blank or fly-leaf next to the binding had been pasted down, and that there was writing on the other side. In its present state it was easily detached from the cover; and then, to his astonishment, he read the name of Cecilia Templemore—his own mother. He knew well the history; how he had been saved, and his mother and brother supposed to be lost; and it may readily be imagined how great was his anxiety to ascertain by what means her Bible had come into the possession of Francisco. He dared not think Francisco was his brother—that he was so closely connected with one he still supposed to be a pirate: but the circumstance was possible; and although he had intended to have remained a few days longer, he now listened to the entreaties of Clara, whose peculiar position on board was only to be justified by the peculiar position from which she had been rescued, and returning that evening to the wreck he set fire to her, and then made all sail for Port Royal.

Fortunately he arrived, as we have stated, on the day of the trial; and as soon as the signal was made by the admiral he immediately manned his gig, and taking Clara with him, in case her evidence might be of use, arrived at the court-house when the trial was about half over.

In our last chapter but one, we stated that Cain had been wounded by Hawkhurst, when he was swimming on shore, and had sunk; the ball had entered his chest, and passed through his lungs. The contest between Hawkhurst and Francisco, and their capture by Edward, had taken place on the other side of the ridge of rocks, in the adjacent cove, and although Francisco had seen Cain disappear, and concluded that he was dead, it was not so; he had again risen above the water, and dropping his feet and finding bottom, he contrived to crawl out, and wade into a cave adjacent, where he lay down to die.

But in this cave there was one of the Avenger's boats, two of the pirates, mortally wounded, and the four Kroumen, who had concealed themselves there with the intention of taking no part in the conflict, and as soon as it became dark of making their escape in the boat, which they had hauled up dry into the cave.

Cain staggered in, recovered the dry land, and fell. Pompey, the Krouman, perceiving his condition, went to his assistance and bound up his wound, and the stanching of the blood soon revived the pirate captain. The other pirates died unaided.

Although the island was searched in every direction, this cave, from the water flowing into it, escaped the vigilance of the British seamen; and when they re-embarked with the majority of the pirates captured, Cain and the Kroumen were undiscovered.

As soon as it was dark Cain informed them of his intentions; and although the Kroumen would probably have left him to his fate, yet, as they required his services to know how to steer to some other island, he was assisted into the stern-sheets, and the boat was backed out of the cave.

By the directions of Cain they passed through the passage between the great island and the northern Cayque, and before daylight were far away from any chance of capture.

Cain had now to a certain degree recovered, and knowing that they were in the channel of the small traders, he pointed put to the Kroumen that, if supposed to be pirates, they would inevitably be punished, although not guilty, and that they must pass off as the crew of a small coasting-vessel which had been wrecked. He then, with the assistance of Pompey, cut off his beard as close as he could, and arranged his dress in a more European style. They had neither water nor provisions, and were exposed to a vertical sun. Fortunately for them, and still more fortunately for Francisco, on the second day they were picked up by an American brig bound to Antigua.

Cain narrated his fictitious disasters, but said nothing about his wound, the neglect of which would certainly have occasioned his death a very few days after he appeared at the trial, had he not fallen by the malignity of Hawkhurst.

Anxious to find his way to Port Royal, for he was indifferent as to his own life, and only wished to save Francisco, he was overjoyed to meet a small schooner trading between the islands, bound to Port Royal. In that vessel he obtained a passage for himself and the Kroumen, and had arrived three days previous to the trial, and during that time had remained concealed until the day that the Admiralty Court assembled.

It may be as well here to remark that Cain's reason for not wishing the packet to be opened was, that among the other papers relative to Francisco were directions for the recovery of the treasure which he had concealed, and which, of course, he wished to be communicated to Francisco alone.

We will leave the reader to imagine what passed between Francisco and Edward after the discovery of their kindred, and proceed to state the contents of the packet, which the twin-brothers now opened in the presence of Clara alone.

We must, however, condense the matter, which was very voluminous. It stated that Cain, whose real name was Charles Osborne, had sailed in a fine schooner from Bilboa, for the coast of Africa, to procure a cargo of slaves; and had been out about twenty-four hours when the crew perceived a boat, apparently with no one in her, floating about a mile ahead of them. The water was then smooth, and the vessel had but little way. As soon as they came up with the boat, they lowered down their skiff to examine her.

The men sent in the skiff soon returned, towing the boat alongside. Lying at the bottom of the boat were found several men almost dead, and reduced to skeletons, and in the stern-sheets a negro woman, with a child at her breast, and a white female in the last state of exhaustion.

Osborne was then a gay and unprincipled man, but not a hardened villain and murderer, as he afterwards became; he had compassion and feeling. They were all taken on board the schooner: some recovered, others were too much exhausted. Among those restored was Cecilia Templemore and the infant, who at first had been considered quite dead; but the negro woman, exhausted by the demands of her nursling and her privations, expired as she was being removed from the boat. A goat, that fortunately was on board, proved a substitute for the negress; and before Osborne had arrived off the coast, the child had recovered its health and vigour, and the mother her extreme beauty.

We must now pass over a considerable portion of the narrative. Osborne was impetuous in his passions, and Cecilia Templemore became his victim. He had, indeed, afterwards quieted her qualms of conscience by a pretended marriage, when he arrived at the Brazils with his cargo of human flesh. But that was little alleviation of her sufferings; she who had been indulged in every luxury, who had been educated with the greatest care, was now lost for ever, an outcast from the society to which she could never hope to return, and associating with those she both dreaded and despised. She passed her days and her nights in tears; and had soon more cause for sorrow from the brutal treatment she received from Osborne, who had been her destroyer. Her child was her only solace; but for him, and the fear of leaving him to the demoralising influence of those about him, she would have laid down and died: but she lived for him—for him attempted to recall Osborne from his career of increasing guilt—bore meekly with reproaches and with blows. At last Osborne changed his nefarious life for one of deeper guilt: he became a pirate, and still carried with him Cecilia and her child.

This was the climax of her misery; she now wasted from day to day, and grief would soon have terminated her existence, had it not been hastened by the cruelty of Cain, who, upon an expostulation on her part, followed up with a denunciation of the consequences of his guilty career, struck her with such violence that she sank under the blow. She expired with a prayer that her child might be rescued from a life of guilt; and when the then repentant Cain promised what he never did perform, she blessed him, too, before she died.

Such was the substance of the narrative, as far as it related to the unfortunate mother of these two young men, who, when they had concluded, sat hand-in-hand in mournful silence. This, however, was soon broken by the innumerable questions asked by Edward of his brother, as to what he could remember of their ill-fated parent, which were followed up by the history of Francisco's eventful life.

'And the treasure, Edward,' said Francisco; 'I cannot take possession of it.'

'No, nor shall you either,' replied Edward; 'it belongs to the captors, and must be shared as prize-money. You will never touch one penny of it; but I shall, I trust, pocket a very fair proportion of it! However, keep this paper, as it is addressed to you.'

The admiral had been made acquainted with all the particulars of this eventful trial, and had sent a message to Edward, requesting that, as soon as he and his brother could make it convenient, he would be happy to see them at the Penn, as well as the daughter of the Spanish governor, whom he must consider as being under his protection during the time that she remained at Port Royal. This offer was gladly accepted by Clara; and on the second day after the trial they proceeded up to the Penn. Clara and Francisco were introduced, and apartments and suitable attendance provided for the former.

'Templemore,' said the admiral, 'I'm afraid I must send you away to Porto Rico, to assure the governor of his daughter's safety.'

'I would rather you would send some one else, sir, and I'll assure her happiness in the meantime.'

'What! by marrying her? Humph! you've a good opinion of yourself! Wait till you're a captain, sir.'

'I hope I shall not have to wait long, sir,' replied Edward demurely.



'By the bye,' said the admiral, 'did you not say you have notice of treasure concealed in those islands?'

'My brother has: I have not.'

'We must send for it. I think we must send you, Edward. Mr. Francisco, you must go with him.'

'With pleasure, sir,' replied Francisco, laughing; 'but I think I'd rather wait till Edward is a captain! His wife and his fortune ought to come together. I think I shall not deliver up my papers until the day of his marriage!'

'Upon my word,' said Captain Manly, 'I wish, Templemore, you had your commission, for there seems so much depending on it—the young lady's happiness, my share of the prize-money, and the admiral's eighth. Really, admiral, it becomes a common cause; and I'm sure he deserves it!'

'So do I, Manly,' replied the admiral; 'and to prove that I have thought so, here comes Mr. Hadley with it in his hand: it only wants one little thing to complete it——'

'Which is your signature, admiral, I presume,' replied Captain Manly, taking a pen full of ink, and presenting it to his senior officer.

'Exactly,' replied the admiral, scribbling at the bottom of the paper; 'and now—it does not want that. Captain Templemore, I wish you joy!'

Edward made a very low obeisance, as his flushed countenance indicated his satisfaction.

'I cannot give commissions, admiral,' said Francisco, presenting a paper in return; 'but I can give information—and you will find it not unimportant—for the treasure appears of great value.'

'God bless my soul! Manly, you must start at daylight!' exclaimed the admiral; 'why, there is enough to load your sloop! There!—read it!—and then I will write your orders, and enclose a copy of it, for fear of accident.'

'That was to have been my fortune,' said Francisco, with a grave smile; 'but I would not touch it.'

'Very right, boy!—a fine principle! But we are not quite so particular,' said the admiral. 'Now, where's the young lady? Let her know that dinner's on the table.'

A fortnight after this conversation, Captain Manly returned with the treasure; and the Enterprise, commanded by another officer, returned from Porto Rico, with a letter from the governor in reply to one from the admiral, in which the rescue of his daughter by Edward had been communicated. The letter was full of thanks to the admiral, and compliments to Edward; and, what was of more importance, it sanctioned the union of the young officer with his daughter, with a dozen boxes of gold doubloons.

About six weeks after the above-mentioned important conversation, Mr. Witherington, who had been reading a voluminous packet of letters in his breakfast-room in Finsbury Square, pulled his bell so violently that old Jonathan thought his master must be out of his senses. This, however, did not induce him to accelerate his solemn and measured pace; and he made his appearance at the door, as usual, without speaking.

'Why don't that fellow answer the bell?' cried Mr. Witherington.

'I am here, sir,' said Jonathan solemnly.

'Well, so you are! but, confound you! you come like the ghost of a butler! But who do you think is coming here, Jonathan?'

'I cannot tell, sir.'

'But I can!—you solemn old——Edward's coming here!—coming home directly!'

'Is he to sleep in his old room, sir?' replied the imperturbable butler.

'No; the best bedroom! Why, Jonathan, he is married—he is made a captain—Captain Templemore!'

'Yes—sir.'

'And he has found his brother, Jonathan; his twin-brother!'

'Yes—sir.'

'His brother Francis—that was supposed to be lost! But it's a long story, Jonathan!—and a very wonderful one!—his poor mother has long been dead!'

'In coelo quies!' said Jonathan, casting up his eyes.

'But his brother has turned up again.'

'Resurgam!' said the butler.

'They will be here in ten days—so let everything be in readiness, Jonathan. God bless my soul!' continued the old gentleman, 'I hardly know what I'm about. It's a Spanish girl, Jonathan!'



'What is, sir?'

'What is, sir!—why, Captain Templemore's wife; and he was tried as a pirate!'

'Who, sir?'

'Who, sir? why, Francis, his brother! Jonathan, you're a stupid old fellow!'

'Have you any further commands, sir?'

'No—no!—there—that'll do—go away.'

And in three weeks after this conversation, Captain and Mrs. Templemore, and his brother Frank, were established in the house, to the great delight of Mr. Witherington; for he had long been tired of solitude and old Jonathan.

The twin-brothers were a comfort to him in his old age: they closed his eyes in peace—they divided his blessing and his large fortune—and thus ends our history of THE PIRATE!



THE THREE CUTTERS



CHAPTER I

CUTTER THE FIRST

Reader, have you ever been at Plymouth? If you have, your eye must have dwelt with ecstasy upon the beautiful property of the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe: if you have not been at Plymouth, the sooner that you go there the better. At Mount Edgcumbe you will behold the finest timber in existence, towering up to the summits of the hills, and feathering down to the shingle on the beach. And from this lovely spot you will witness one of the most splendid panoramas in the world. You will see—I hardly know what you will not see—you will see Ram Head, and Cawsand Bay; and then you will see the Breakwater, and Drake's Island, and the Devil's Bridge below you; and the town of Plymouth and its fortifications, and the Hoe; and then you will come to the Devil's Point, round which the tide runs devilish strong; and then you will see the New Victualling Office—about which Sir James Gordon used to stump all day, and take a pinch of snuff from every man who carried a box, which all were delighted to give, and he was delighted to receive, proving how much pleasure may be communicated merely by a pinch of snuff; and then you will see Mount Wise and Mutton Cove; the town of Devonport, with its magnificent dockyard and arsenals, North Corner, and the way which leads to Saltash. And you will see ships building and ships in ordinary; and ships repairing and ships fitting; and hulks and convict ships, and the guardship; ships ready to sail and ships under sail; besides lighters, men-of-war's boats, dockyard-boats, bumboats, and shore-boats. In short, there is a great deal to see at Plymouth besides the sea itself: but what I particularly wish now is, that you will stand at the Battery of Mount Edgcumbe and look into Barn Pool below you, and there you will see, lying at single anchor, a cutter; and you may also see, by her pendant and ensign, that she is a yacht.

Of all the amusements entered into by the nobility and gentry of our island there is not one so manly, so exciting, so patriotic, or so national as yacht-sailing. It is peculiar to England, not only from our insular position and our fine harbours, but because it requires a certain degree of energy and a certain amount of income rarely to be found elsewhere. It has been wisely fostered by our sovereigns, who have felt that the security of the kingdom is increased by every man being more or less a sailor, or connected with the nautical profession. It is an amusement of the greatest importance to the country, as it has much improved our ship-building and our ship-fitting, while it affords employment to our seamen and shipwrights. But if I were to say all that I could say in praise of yachts, I should never advance with my narrative. I shall therefore drink a bumper to the health of Admiral Lord Yarborough and the Yacht Club, and proceed.

You observe that this yacht is cutter-rigged, and that she sits gracefully on the smooth water. She is just heaving up her anchor; her foresail is loose, all ready to cast her—in a few minutes she will be under way. You see that there are ladies sitting at the taffrail; and there are five haunches of venison hanging over the stern. Of all amusements, give me yachting. But we must go on board. The deck, you observe, is of narrow deal planks as white as snow; the guns are of polished brass; the bitts and binnacles of mahogany; she is painted with taste; and all the mouldings are gilded. There is nothing wanting; and yet how clear and unencumbered are her decks! Let us go below. This is the ladies' cabin: can anything be more tasteful or elegant? is it not luxurious? and, although so small, does not its very confined space astonish you, when you view so many comforts so beautifully arranged? This is the dining-room, and where the gentlemen repair. What can be more complete or recherche? And just peep into their state-rooms and bed-places. Here is the steward's room and the beaufet: the steward is squeezing lemons for the punch, and there is the champagne in ice; and by the side of the pail the long corks are ranged up, all ready. Now, let us go forwards: here are the men's berths, not confined as in a man-of-war. No; luxury starts from abaft, and is not wholly lost even at the fore-peak. This is the kitchen: is it not admirably arranged? What a multum in parvo! And how delightful are the fumes of the turtle-soup! At sea we do meet with rough weather at times; but, for roughing it out, give me a yacht. Now that I have shown you round the vessel, I must introduce the parties on board.

You observe that florid, handsome man, in white trousers and blue jacket, who has a telescope in one hand, and is sipping a glass of brandy and water which he has just taken off the skylight. That is the owner of the vessel, and a member of the Yacht Club. It is Lord B——: he looks like a sailor, and he does not much belie his looks; yet I have seen him in his robes of state at the opening of the House of Lords. The one near to him is Mr. Stewart, a lieutenant in the navy. He holds on by the rigging with one hand, because, having been actively employed all his life, he does not know what to do with hands which have nothing in them. He is a protege of Lord B., and is now on board as sailing-master of the yacht.

That handsome, well-built man, who is standing by the binnacle, is a Mr. Hautaine. He served six years as midshipman in the navy, and did not like it. He then served six years in a cavalry regiment, and did not like it. He then married, and in a much shorter probation found that he did not like that. But he is very fond of yachts and other men's wives, if he does not like his own; and wherever he goes, he is welcome.

That young man with an embroidered silk waistcoat and white gloves, bending to talk to one of the ladies, is a Mr. Vaughan. He is to be seen at Almack's, at Crockford's, and everywhere else. Everybody knows him, and he knows everybody. He is a little in debt, and yachting is convenient.

The one who sits by the lady is a relation of Lord B.; you see at once what he is. He apes the sailor; he has not shaved, because sailors have no time to shave every day; he has not changed his linen, because sailors cannot change every day. He has a cigar in his mouth, which makes him half sick and annoys his company. He talks of the pleasure of a rough sea, which will drive all the ladies below—and then they will not perceive that he is more sick than themselves. He has the misfortune to be born to a large estate, and to be a fool. His name is Ossulton.



The last of the gentlemen on board whom I have to introduce is Mr. Seagrove. He is slightly made, with marked features full of intelligence. He has been brought up to the bar; and has every qualification but application. He has never had a brief, nor has he a chance of one. He is the fiddler of the company, and he has locked up his chambers and come, by invitation of his lordship, to play on board of his yacht.

I have yet to describe the ladies—perhaps I should have commenced with them—I must excuse myself upon the principle of reserving the best to the last. All puppet-showmen do so; and what is this but the first scene in my puppet-show?

We will describe them according to seniority. That tall, thin, cross-looking lady of forty-five is a spinster, and sister to Lord B. She had been persuaded, very much against her will, to come on board; but her notions of propriety would not permit her niece to embark under the protection of only her father. She is frightened at everything: if a rope is thrown down on the deck, up she starts, and cries 'Oh!' if on the deck, she thinks the water is rushing in below; if down below, and there is a noise, she is convinced there is danger; and if it be perfectly still, she is sure there is something wrong. She fidgets herself and everybody, and is quite a nuisance with her pride and ill-humour; but she has strict notions of propriety, and sacrifices herself as a martyr. She is the Hon. Miss Ossulton.

The lady who, when she smiles, shows so many dimples in her pretty oval face, is a young widow, of the name of Lascelles. She married an old man to please her father and mother, which was very dutiful on her part. She was rewarded by finding herself a widow with a large fortune. Having married the first time to please her parents, she intends now to marry to please herself; but she is very young, and is in no hurry.

That young lady with such a sweet expression of countenance is the Hon. Miss Cecilia Ossulton. She is lively, witty, and has no fear in her composition; but she is very young yet, not more than seventeen—and nobody knows what she really is—she does not know herself. These are the parties who meet in the cabin of the yacht. The crew consists of ten fine seamen, the steward and the cook. There is also Lord B.'s valet, Mr. Ossulton's gentleman, and the lady's-maid of Miss Ossulton. There not being accommodation for them, the other servants have been left on shore.



The yacht is now under way, and her sails are all set. She is running between Drake's Island and the main. Dinner has been announced. As the reader has learnt something about the preparations, I leave him to judge whether it be not very pleasant to sit down to dinner in a yacht. The air has given everybody an appetite; and it was not until the cloth was removed that the conversation became general.

'Mr. Seagrove,' said his lordship, 'you very nearly lost your passage; I expected you last Thursday.'

'I am sorry, my lord, that business prevented my sooner attending to your lordship's kind summons.'

'Come, Seagrove, don't be nonsensical,' said Hautaine; 'you told me yourself, the other evening, when you were talkative, that you had never had a brief in your life.'

'And a very fortunate circumstance,' replied Seagrove; 'for if I had had a brief I should not have known what to have done with it. It is not my fault; I am fit for nothing but a commissioner. But still I had business, and very important business, too. I was summoned by Ponsonby to go with him to Tattersall's, to give my opinion about a horse he wishes to purchase, and then to attend him to Forest Wild to plead his cause with his uncle.'

'It appears, then, that you were retained,' replied Lord B.; 'may I ask you whether your friend gained his cause?'

'No, my lord, he lost his cause, but he gained a suit.'

'Expound your riddle, sir,' said Cecilia Ossulton.

'The fact is, that old Ponsonby is very anxious that William should marry Miss Percival, whose estates join on to Forest Wild. Now, my friend William is about as fond of marriage as I am of law, and thereby issue was joined.'

'But why were you to be called in?' inquired Mrs. Lascelles.

'Because, madam, as Ponsonby never buys a horse without consulting me——'

'I cannot see the analogy, sir,' observed Miss Ossulton, senior, bridling up.

'Pardon me, madam: the fact is,' continued Seagrove, 'that, as I always have to back Ponsonby's horses, he thought it right that, in this instance, I should back him: he required special pleading, but his uncle tried him for the capital offence, and he was not allowed counsel. As soon as we arrived, and I had bowed myself into the room, Mr. Ponsonby bowed me out again—which would have been infinitely more jarring to my feelings, had not the door been left ajar.'

'Do anything but pun, Seagrove,' interrupted Hautaine.

'Well then, I will take a glass of wine.'

'Do so,' said his lordship; 'but recollect the whole company are impatient for your story.'

'I can assure you, my lord, that it was equal to any scene in a comedy.'

Now be it observed that Mr. Seagrove had a great deal of comic talent; he was an excellent mimic, and could alter his voice almost as he pleased. It was a custom of his to act a scene as between other people, and he performed it remarkably well. Whenever he said that anything he was going to narrate was 'as good as a comedy,' it was generally understood by those who were acquainted with him that he was to be asked so to do. Cecilia Ossulton therefore immediately said, 'Pray act it, Mr. Seagrove.'

Upon which, Mr. Seagrove—premising that he had not only heard but also seen all that passed—changing his voice, and suiting the action to the word, commenced.

'It may,' said he, 'be called

"FIVE THOUSAND ACRES IN A RING-FENCE"'

We shall not describe Mr. Seagrove's motions; they must be inferred from his words.

'"It will then, William," observed Mr. Ponsonby, stopping, and turning to his nephew, after a rapid walk up and down the room with his hands behind him under his coat, so as to allow the tails to drop their perpendicular about three inches clear of his body, "I may say, without contradiction, be the finest property in the county—five thousand acres in a ring-fence."

'"I daresay it will, uncle," replied William, tapping his foot, as he lounged in a green morocco easy-chair; "and so, because you have set your fancy upon having these two estates enclosed together in a ring-fence, you wish that I should be also enclosed in a ring-fence."

'"And a beautiful property it will be," replied Mr. Ponsonby.

'"Which, uncle? the estate or the wife?"

'"Both, nephew, both; and I expect your consent."

'"Uncle, I am not avaricious. Your present property is sufficient for me. With your permission, instead of doubling the property, and doubling myself, I will remain your sole heir and single."

'"Observe, William, such an opportunity may not occur again for centuries. We shall restore Forest Wild to its ancient boundaries. You know it has been divided nearly two hundred years. We now have a glorious, golden opportunity of reuniting the two properties; and when joined, the estate will be exactly what it was when granted to our ancestors by Henry VIII., at the period of the Reformation. This house must be pulled down, and the monastery left standing. Then we shall have our own again, and the property without encumbrance."

'"Without encumbrance, uncle! You forget that there will be a wife."

'"And you forget that there will be five thousand acres in a ring-fence."

'"Indeed, uncle, you ring it too often in my ears that I should forget it. But, much as I should like to be the happy possessor of such a property, I do not feel inclined to be the happy possessor of Miss Percival; and the more so, as I have never seen the property."

'"We will ride over it to-morrow, William."

'"Ride over Miss Percival, uncle! That will not be very gallant. I will, however, one of these days ride over the property with you, which, as well as Miss Percival, I have not as yet seen."

'"Then I can tell you she is a very pretty property."

'"If she were not in a ring-fence."

'"In good heart, William. That is, I mean an excellent disposition."

'"Valuable in matrimony."

'"And well tilled—I should say well educated—by her three maiden aunts, who are the patterns of propriety."

'"Does any one follow the fashion?"

"In a high state of cultivation; that is, her mind highly cultivated, and according to the last new system—what is it?"

'"A four-course shift, I presume," replied William, laughing; "that is, dancing, singing, music, and drawing."

'"And only seventeen! Capital soil, promising good crops. What would you have more?"

"A very pretty estate, uncle, if it were not the estate of matrimony. I am sorry, very sorry, to disappoint you; but I must decline taking a lease of it for life."

'"Then, sir, allow me to hint to you that in my testament you are only a tenant-at-will. I consider it a duty that I owe to the family that the estate should be re-united. That can only be done by one of our family marrying Miss Percival; and as you will not, I shall now write to your cousin James, and if he accept my proposal, shall make him my heir. Probably he will more fully appreciate the advantages of five thousand acres in a ring-fence."

'And Mr. Ponsonby directed his steps towards the door.

'"Stop, my dear uncle," cried William, rising up from his easy-chair; "we do not quite understand one another. It is very true that I would prefer half the property and remaining single, to the two estates and the estate of marriage; but at the same time I did not tell you that I would prefer beggary to a wife and five thousand acres in a ring-fence. I know you to be a man of your word. I accept your proposal, and you need not put my cousin James to the expense of postage."

'"Very good, William; I require no more: and as I know you to be a man of your word, I shall consider this match as settled. It was on this account only that I sent for you, and now you may go back again as soon as you please. I will let you know when all is ready."

"I must be at Tattersall's on Monday, uncle; there is a horse I must have for next season. Pray, uncle, may I ask when you are likely to want me?"

'"Let me see—this is May—about July, I should think."

"July, uncle! Spare me—I cannot marry in the dog-days. No, hang it! not July."

'"Well, William, perhaps, as you must come down once or twice to see the property—Miss Percival, I should say—it may be too soon—suppose we put it off till October?"

'"October—I shall be down at Melton."

'"Pray, sir, may I then inquire what portion of the year is not, with you, dog-days?"

'"Why, uncle, next April, now—I think that would do."

'"Next April! Eleven months, and a winter between. Suppose Miss Percival was to take a cold and die."

'"I should be excessively obliged to her," thought William.

'"No, no!" continued Mr. Ponsonby: "there is nothing certain in this world, William."

'"Well then, uncle, suppose we arrange it for the first hard frost."

'"We have had no hard frosts lately, William. We may wait for years. The sooner it is over the better. Go back to town, buy your horse, and then come down here, my dear William, to oblige your uncle—never mind the dog-days."

'"Well, sir, if I am to make a sacrifice, it shall not be done by halves; out of respect for you I will even marry in July, without any regard to the thermometer."

'"You are a good boy, William. Do you want a cheque?"

'"I have had one to-day," thought William, and was almost at fault. "I shall be most thankful, sir—they sell horseflesh by the ounce nowadays."

'"And you pay in pounds. There, William."

'"Thank you, sir, I'm all obedience; and I'll keep my word, even if there should be a comet. I'll go and buy the horse, and then I shall be ready to take the ring-fence as soon as you please."

'"Yes, and you'll get over it cleverly, I've no doubt. Five thousand acres, William, and—a pretty wife!"

'"Have you any further commands, uncle?" said William, depositing the cheque in his pocket-book.

'"None, my dear boy; are you going?"

'"Yes, sir; I dine at the Clarendon."

'"Well, then, good-bye. Make my compliments and excuses to your friend Seagrove. You will come on Tuesday or Wednesday."

'Thus was concluded the marriage between William Ponsonby and Emily Percival, and the junction of the two estates, which formed together the great desideratum—five thousand acres in a ring-fence.'

Mr. Seagrove finished, and he looked round for approbation.

'Very good indeed, Seagrove,' said his lordship; 'you must take a glass of wine after that.'

'I would not give much for Miss Percival's chance of happiness,' observed the elder Miss Ossulton.

'Of two evils choose the least, they say,' observed Mr. Hautaine. 'Poor Ponsonby could not help himself.'

'That's a very polite observation of yours, Mr. Hautaine—I thank you in the name of the sex,' replied Cecilia Ossulton.

'Nay, Miss Ossulton; would you like to marry a person whom you never saw?'

'Most certainly not; but when you mentioned the two evils, Mr. Hautaine, I appeal to your honour, did you not refer to marriage or beggary?'

'I must confess it, Miss Ossulton; but it is hardly fair to call on my honour to get me into a scrape.'

'I only wish that the offer had been made to me,' observed Vaughan; 'I should not have hesitated as Ponsonby did.'

'Then I beg you will not think of proposing for me,' said Mrs. Lascelles, laughing; for Mr. Vaughan had been excessively attentive.

'It appears to me, Vaughan,' observed Seagrove, 'that you have slightly committed yourself by that remark.'

Vaughan, who thought so too, replied, 'Mrs. Lascelles must be aware that I was only joking.'

'Fie! Mr. Vaughan,' cried Cecilia Ossulton; 'you know it came from your heart.'

'My dear Cecilia,' said the elder Miss Ossulton, 'you forget yourself—what can you possibly know about gentlemen's hearts?'

'The Bible says that they are "deceitful and desperately wicked," aunt.'

'And cannot we also quote the Bible against your sex, Miss Ossulton?' replied Seagrove.

'Yes, you could, perhaps, if any of you had ever read it,' replied Miss Ossulton carelessly.

'Upon my word, Cissy, you are throwing the gauntlet down to the gentlemen,' observed Lord B.; 'but I shall throw my warder down, and not permit this combat a l'outrance. I perceive you drink no more wine, gentlemen; we will take our coffee on deck.'



'We were just about to retire, my lord,' observed the elder Miss Ossulton, with great asperity; 'I have been trying to catch the eye of Mrs. Lascelles for some time, but——'

'I was looking another way, I presume,' interrupted Mrs. Lascelles, smiling.

'I am afraid that I am the unfortunate culprit,' said Mr. Seagrove. 'I was telling a little anecdote to Mrs. Lascelles——'

'Which, of course, from its being communicated in an undertone, was not proper for all the company to hear,' replied the elder Miss Ossulton; 'but if Mrs. Lascelles is now ready——' continued she, bridling up, as she rose from her chair.

'At all events, I can hear the remainder of it on deck,' replied Mrs. Lascelles. The ladies rose and went into the cabin, Cecilia and Mrs. Lascelles exchanging very significant smiles as they followed the precise spinster, who did not choose that Mrs. Lascelles should take the lead merely because she had once happened to have been married. The gentlemen also broke up, and went on deck.

'We have a nice breeze now, my lord,' observed Mr. Stewart, who had remained on deck, 'and we lie right up Channel.'

'So much the better,' replied his lordship; 'we ought to have been anchored at Cowes a week ago. They will all be there before us.'

'Tell Mr. Simpson to bring me a light for my cigar,' said Mr. Ossulton to one of the men.

Mr. Stewart went down to his dinner; the ladies and the coffee came on deck; the breeze was fine, the weather (it was April) almost warm; and the yacht, whose name was the Arrow, assisted by the tide, soon left the Mewstone far astern.



CHAPTER II

CUTTER THE SECOND

Reader, have you ever been at Portsmouth? If you have, you must have been delighted with the view from the saluting battery; and if you have not, you had better go there as soon as you can. From the saluting battery you may look up the harbour, and see much of what I have described at Plymouth; the scenery is different, but similar arsenals and dockyards, and an equal portion of our stupendous navy, are to be found there; and you will see Gosport on the other side of the harbour, and Sallyport close to you; besides a great many other places, which from the saluting battery you cannot see. And then there is Southsea Beach to your left. Before you, Spithead, with the men-of-war, and the Motherbank crowded with merchant vessels; and there is the buoy where the Royal George was wrecked and where she still lies, the fish swimming in and out of her cabin windows; but that is not all; you can also see the Isle of Wight—Ryde with its long-wooden pier, and Cowes, where the yachts lie. In fact, there is a great deal to be seen at Portsmouth as well as at Plymouth; but what I wish you particularly to see just how is a vessel holding fast to the buoy just off the saluting battery. She is a cutter; and you may know that she belongs to the Preventive Service by the number of gigs and galleys which she has hoisted up all round her. She looks like a vessel that was about to sail with a cargo of boats; two on deck, one astern, one on each side of her. You observe that she is painted black, and all her boats are white. She is not such an elegant vessel as the yacht, and she is much more lumbered up. She has no haunches of venison hanging over the stern, but I think there is a leg of mutton and some cabbages hanging by their stalks. But revenue cutters are not yachts. You will find no turtle or champagne; but, nevertheless, you will, perhaps, find a joint to carve at, a good glass of grog, and a hearty welcome.

Let us go on board. You observe the guns are iron, and painted black, and her bulwarks are painted red; it is not a very becoming colour, but then it lasts a long while, and the dockyard is not very generous on the score of paint—or lieutenants of the navy troubled with much spare cash. She has plenty of men, and fine men they are; all dressed in red flannel shirts and blue trousers; some of them have not taken off their canvas or tarpaulin petticoats, which are very useful to them, as they are in the boats night and day, and in all weathers. But we will at once go down into the cabin, where we shall find the lieutenant who commands her, a master's mate, and a midshipman. They have each their tumbler before them, and are drinking gin-toddy, hot, with sugar—capital gin, too, 'bove proof; it is from that small anker standing under the table. It was one that they forgot to return to the custom-house when they made their last seizure. We must introduce them.

The elderly personage, with grizzly hair and whiskers, a round pale face, and a somewhat red nose (being too much in the wind will make the nose red, and this old officer is very often 'in the wind,' of course, from the very nature of his profession), is a Lieutenant Appleboy. He has served in every class of vessel in the service, and done the duty of first lieutenant for twenty years; he is now on promotion—that is to say, after he has taken a certain number of tubs of gin, he will be rewarded with his rank as commander. It is a pity that what he takes inside of him does not count, for he takes it morning, noon, and night. He is just filling his fourteenth glass: he always keeps a regular account, as he never exceeds his limited number, which is seventeen; then he is exactly down to his bearings.

The master's mate's name is Tomkins; he has served his six years three times over, and has now outgrown his ambition; which is fortunate for him, as his chances of promotion are small. He prefers a small vessel to a large one, because he is not obliged to be so particular in his dress—and looks for his lieutenancy whenever there shall be another charity promotion. He is fond of soft bread, for his teeth are all absent without leave; he prefers porter to any other liquor, but he can drink his glass of grog, whether it be based upon rum, brandy, or the liquor now before him.



Mr. Smith is the name of that young gentleman whose jacket is so out at the elbows; he has been intending to mend it these last two months, but is too lazy to go to his chest for another. He has been turned out of half the ships in the service for laziness; but he was born so—and therefore it is not his fault. A revenue cutter suits him, she is half her time hove-to; and he has no objection to boat-service, as he sits down always in the stern-sheets, which is not fatiguing. Creeping for tubs is his delight, as he gets over so little ground. He is fond of grog, but there is some trouble in carrying the tumbler so often to his mouth; so he looks at it, and lets it stand. He says little because he is too lazy to speak. He has served more than eight years; but as for passing—it has never come into his head. Such are the three persons who are now sitting in the cabin of the revenue cutter, drinking hot gin-toddy.

'Let me see, it was, I think, in ninety-three or ninety-four. Before you were in the service, Tomkins——'

'Maybe, sir; it's so long ago since I entered, that I can't recollect dates—but this I know, that my aunt died three days before.'

'Then the question is, When did your aunt die?'

'Oh! she died about a year after my uncle.'

'And when did your uncle die?'

'I'll be hanged if I know!'

'Then, d'ye see, you've no departure to work from. However, I think you cannot have been in the service at that time. We were not quite so particular about uniform as we are now.'

'Then I think the service was all the better for it. Nowadays, in your crack ships, a mate has to go down in the hold or spirit-room, and after whipping up fifty empty casks, and breaking out twenty full ones, he is expected to come on quarter-deck as clean as if he was just come out of a bandbox.'

'Well, there's plenty of water alongside, as far as the outward man goes, and iron dust is soon brushed off. However, as you say, perhaps a little too much is expected; at least, in five of the ships in which I was first lieutenant, the captain was always hauling me over the coals about the midshipmen not dressing properly, as if I was their dry-nurse. I wonder what Captain Prigg would have said if he had seen such a turn-out as you, Mr. Smith, on his quarter-deck.'

'I should have had one turn-out more,' drawled Smith.

'With your out-at-elbows jacket, there, eh!' continued Mr. Appleboy.

Smith turned up his elbows, looked at one and then at the other; after so fatiguing an operation, he was silent.

'Well, where was I? Oh! it was about ninety-three or ninety-four, as I said, that it happened—Tomkins, fill your glass and hand me the sugar—how do I get on? This is No 15,' said Appleboy, counting some white lines on the table by him; and taking up a piece of chalk, he marked one more line on his tally. 'I don't think this is so good a tub as the last, Tomkins, there's a twang about it—a want of juniper; however, I hope we shall have better luck this time. Of course you know we sail to-morrow?'

'I presume so, by the leg of mutton coming on board.'

'True—true; I'm regular—as clockwork. After being twenty years a first lieutenant one gets a little method. I like regularity. Now the admiral has never omitted asking me to dinner once, every time I have come into harbour, except this time. I was so certain of it, that I never expected to sail; and I have but two shirts clean in consequence.'

'That's odd, isn't it?—and the more so, because he has had such great people down here, and has been giving large parties every day.'

'And yet I made three seizures, besides sweeping up those thirty-seven tubs.'

'I swept them up,' observed Smith.

'That's all the same thing, younker. When you've been a little longer in the service, you'll find out that the commanding officer has the merit of all that is done; but you're green yet. Let me see, where was I? Oh! it was about ninety-three or ninety-four, as I said. At that time I was in the Channel fleet——Tomkins, I'll trouble you for the hot water; this water's cold. Mr. Smith, do me the favour to ring the bell. Jem, some more hot water.'

'Please, sir,' said Jem, who was barefooted as well as bareheaded, touching the lock of hair on his forehead, 'the cook has capsized the kettle—but he has put more on.'

'Capsized the kettle! Hah!—very well—we'll talk about that to-morrow. Mr. Tomkins, do me the favour to put him in the report: I may forget it. And pray, sir, how long is it since he has put more on?'

'Just this moment, sir, as I came aft.'

'Very well, we'll see to that to-morrow. You bring the kettle aft as soon as it is ready. I say, Mr. Jem, is that fellow sober?'

'Yees, sir, he be sober as you be.'

'It's quite astonishing what a propensity the common sailors have to liquor. Forty odd years have I been in the service, and I've never found any difference. I only wish I had a guinea for every time that I have given a fellow seven-water grog during my servitude as first lieutenant, I wouldn't call the king my cousin. Well, if there's no hot water, we must take lukewarm; it won't do to heave-to. By the Lord Harry! who would have thought it?—I'm at number sixteen! Let me count—yes!—surely I must have made a mistake. A fact, by Heaven!' continued Mr. Appleboy, throwing the chalk down on the table. 'Only one more glass after this; that is, if I have counted right—I may have seen double.'

'Yes,' drawled Smith.

'Well, never mind. Let's go on with my story. It was either in the year ninety-three or ninety-four that I was in the Channel fleet; we were then abreast of Torbay——'

'Here be the hot water, sir,' cried Jem, putting the kettle down on the deck.

'Very well, boy. By the bye, has the jar of butter come on board?'

'Yes, but it broke all down the middle. I tied him up with a rope-yarn.'

'Who broke it, sir?'

'Coxswain says as how he didn't.'

'But who did, sir?'

'Coxswain handed it up to Bill Jones, and he says as how he didn't.'

'But who did, sir?'

'Bill Jones gave it to me, and I'm sure as how I didn't.'

'Then who did, sir, I ask you?'

'I think it be Bill Jones, sir, 'cause he's fond of butter, I know, and there be very little left in the jar.'

'Very well, we'll see to that to-morrow morning. Mr. Tomkins, you'll oblige me by putting the butter-jar down in the report, in case it should slip my memory. Bill Jones, indeed, looks as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Never mind. Well, it was, as I said before—it was in the year ninety-three or ninety-four, when I was in the Channel fleet; we were then off Torbay, and had just taken two reefs in the topsails. Stop—before I go on with my story, I'll take my last glass; I think it's the last—let me count. Yes, by heavens! I make out sixteen, well told. Never mind, it shall be a stiff one. Boy, bring the kettle, and mind you don't pour the hot water into my shoes, as you did the other night. There, that will do. Now, Tomkins, fill up yours; and you, Mr. Smith. Let us all start fair, and then you shall have my story—and a very curious one it is, I can tell you; I wouldn't have believed it myself, if I hadn't seen it. Hilloa! what's this? Confound it! what's the matter with the toddy? Heh, Mr. Tomkins?'

Mr. Tomkins tasted; but, like the lieutenant, he had made it very stiff; and, as he had also taken largely before, he was, like him, not quite so clear in his discrimination. 'It has a queer twang, sir; Smith, what is it?'

Smith took up his glass, tasted the contents.

'Salt water,' drawled the midshipman.

'Salt water! so it is, by heavens!' cried Mr. Appleboy.

'Salt as Lot's wife! by all that's infamous!' cried the master's mate.

'Salt water, sir!' cried Jem in a fright, expecting a salt eel for supper.

'Yes, sir,' replied Mr. Appleboy, tossing the contents of the tumbler in the boy's face, 'salt water. Very well, sir—very well!'

'It warn't me, sir,' replied the boy, making up a piteous look.

'No, sir, but you said the cook was sober.'

'He was not so very much disguised, sir,' replied Jem.

'Oh! very well—never mind. Mr. Tomkins, in case I should forget it, do me the favour to put the kettle of salt water down in the report. The scoundrel! I'm very sorry, gentlemen, but there's no means of having any more gin-toddy. But never mind, we'll see to this to-morrow. Two can play at this; and if I don't salt-water their grog, and make them drink it too, I have been twenty years a first lieutenant for nothing, that's all. Good-night, gentlemen; and,' continued the lieutenant, in a severe tone, 'you'll keep a sharp look-out, Mr. Smith—do you hear, sir?'



'Yes,' drawled Smith, 'but it's not my watch; it was my first watch; and just now it struck one bell.'

'You'll keep the middle watch, then, Mr. Smith,' said Mr. Appleboy, who was not a little put out; 'and, Mr. Tomkins, let me know as soon as it's daylight. Boy, get my bed made. Salt water, by all that's blue! However, we'll see to that to-morrow morning.'

Mr. Appleboy then turned in; so did Mr. Tomkins; and so did Mr. Smith, who had no idea of keeping the middle watch because the cook was drunk and had filled up the kettle with salt water. As for what happened in ninety-three or ninety-four, I really would inform the reader if I knew; but I am afraid that that most curious story is never to be handed down to posterity.

The next morning Mr. Tomkins, as usual, forgot to report the cook, the jar of butter, and the kettle of salt water; and Mr. Appleboy's wrath had long been appeased before he remembered them. At daylight, the lieutenant came on deck, having only slept away half of the sixteen, and a taste of the seventeenth salt-water glass of gin-toddy. He rubbed his gray eyes, that he might peer through the gray of the morning; the fresh breeze blew about his grizzly locks, and cooled his rubicund nose. The revenue cutter, whose name was the Active, cast off from the buoy, and, with a fresh breeze, steered her course for the Needles passage.



CHAPTER III

CUTTER THE THIRD

Reader! have you been to St. Maloes? If you have, you were glad enough to leave the hole; and if you have not, take my advice, and do not give yourself the trouble to go and see that or any other French port in the Channel. There is not one worth looking at. They have made one or two artificial ports, and they are no great things; there is no getting out or getting in. In fact, they have no harbours in the Channel, while we have the finest in the world; a peculiar dispensation of Providence, because it knew that we should want them, and France would not. In France, what are called ports are all alike—nasty, narrow holes, only to be entered at certain times of tide and certain winds; made up of basins and back-waters, custom-houses and cabarets; just fit for smugglers to run into, and nothing more; and, therefore, they are used for very little else.

Now, in the dog-hole called St. Maloes there is some pretty land, although a great deficiency of marine scenery. But never mind that. Stay at home, and don't go abroad to drink sour wine, because they call it Bordeaux, and eat villainous trash, so disguised by cooking that you cannot possibly tell which of the birds of the air, or beasts of the field, or fishes of the sea, you are cramming down your throat. 'If all is right, there is no occasion for disguise,' is an old saying; so depend upon it that there is something wrong, and that you are eating offal, under a grand French name. They eat everything in France, and would serve you up the head of a monkey who has died of the smallpox, as singe au petite verole—that is, if you did not understand French; if you did, they would call it tete d'amour a l'Ethiopique, and then you would be even more puzzled. As for their wine, there is no disguise in that; it's half vinegar. No, no! stay at home; you can live just as cheaply, if you choose; and then you will have good meat, good vegetables, good ale, good beer, and a good glass of grog; and, what is of more importance, you will be in good company. Live with your friends, and don't make a fool of yourself.