Chapter Three.
A Capture and a Recapture.
A fortnight from the day on which Captain Leicester signed the charter-party saw the last package passed into the Aurora’s hold, and on the following day she sailed for Plymouth, there to join a fleet of merchant-ships which were to cross the Atlantic under convoy.
Thanks principally to the exertions of his chief mate, Mr Bowen, George was fortunate enough to pick up a very good crew, comprising a second mate—who acted also as boatswain—a carpenter, a steward, a black cook, two able-seamen, four ordinary ditto, and two well-grown lads, who had already been a voyage or two in a coaster. This constituted a complement of fourteen men, all told; just sufficient to handle the barque comfortably.
They sailed from the Thames with the wind at about west, and had a capital run as far as the South Foreland, the Aurora showing herself to be such a smart vessel under her canvas that her commander was delighted with her.
At this point, however, the wind, which still held from the westward, was dead against them, and it became a question whether they should anchor in the Downs to await a favourable change, or continue on and endeavour to beat a passage as far as Plymouth. Prudence dictated the adoption of the former course; it being well known that the Channel was just then swarming with French privateers—powerful luggers for the most part—the captains of which had an unpleasant habit of slipping out of harbour as the evening came on, and stretching across toward the English coast, on the lookout for our merchantmen, very often picking up a valuable prize and getting back into port the next morning. The weather, too, happened just then to be highly favourable for the operations of these gentry, the sky being overcast with frequent showers, and no moon.
On the other hand, however, time was of the utmost importance; George had only five days left him in which to reach Plymouth, if he was to avail himself of the protection of convoy; so, after discussing the question with Mr Bowen, and carefully weighing it in his own mind, he finally decided to keep the ship moving, and to trust to fortune and a good lookout.
The Aurora accordingly proceeded, stretching over as far as mid-channel, when she went about; and on drawing in with the land again Leicester had the satisfaction of seeing that she would handsomely weather Beachy Head, which she did, tacking close in under the land about breakfast-time on the day following her departure from London. At 2 p.m., being at the time rather nearer to the French than to the English coast, George tacked again, in order to close the English shore toward nightfall.
At 9 p.m., being abreast of Littlehampton, and about eight miles off the shore, the Aurora went about once more, and stood over towards France, close-hauled on the starboard tack.
The weather had cleared somewhat, the sun breaking through the clouds as the afternoon wore on, and flooding the whole western sky with splendour as he sank to rest. One by one, as the golden glory of the west faded into sober grey, the stars shone out, peeping shyly down upon the world from the softly dappled sky, and there was every prospect of its being a fine night in the Channel. George accordingly gave instructions for the ship to continue on the same tack until midnight, when she was to be hove about once more. Then, cautioning the second mate—who was in charge of the deck—to maintain a strict lookout and to call him in the event of a change of weather or the appearance of a suspicious-looking sail in their neighbourhood, he went below to snatch an hour or two of sleep, having had none so far from the moment of the vessel’s sailing.
Flinging off his clothes, he threw himself into his swinging cot, and instantly sank into a sound and dreamless slumber; to be awakened again with a start, and almost instantly, as it seemed to him, by the flapping of the ship’s canvas in the wind.
Starting up into a sitting posture, he heard the voice of the chief mate on deck giving the necessary orders for tacking ship.
“Hillo!” he thought, “what is the meaning of this? Nothing wrong, I hope. No, that cannot be, or they would surely have called me. Perhaps it is a change of wind; I hope it is. Well, being awake, I may as well slip on deck and satisfy myself as to the meaning of it.”
He accordingly sprang out of his cot, and began to dress himself; the sounds on deck having meanwhile ceased, save for the monotonous tread overhead of the officer of the watch, and the occasional clank of the wheel-chains. The ship was heeling over to starboard, showing that she was on the port tack, and the rushing sound of the water along her sides seemed to indicate that she was moving pretty rapidly through it.
As he opened his state-room door to pass into the main cabin, a heavy step was heard descending the companion-ladder, and the next moment the second mate appeared at its foot, in the act of turning into his own state-room.
“Well, Mr Cross,” said the skipper, “what is the news from the deck? You have tacked ship, it seems; is there a change of wind?”
“No, sir,” answered Cross; “the wind still holds steady at about west, though it seems a little inclined to back half a point or so to the south’ard, and it’s clouded over again and gone very dark. We tacked at midnight, sir, according to your orders.”
“Midnight!” ejaculated George; “you surely do not mean to say it is midnight already, Cross?”
“About a quarter after it, sir,” answered the second mate with a smile. “You’ve slept sound, sir, I expect; and time has travelled fast with you.”
“I must have slept sound indeed,” answered the skipper; “to me it seemed that I had hardly fallen asleep when I was awakened by the flapping of the canvas. Well, I’ll not keep you from your bunk; I shall go on deck and take a look round before I turn in again. Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir,” was the reply; and the second mate opened the door of his berth and passed in, whilst George sprang lightly up the companion-ladder and stepped out on deck.
It was indeed, as the second mate had said, very dark; so much so that the skipper, having just left the cabin, where a lamp was dimly burning, was unable to see anything for a moment or two. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he caught first a glimpse of the man at the wheel, his form faintly illuminated by the binnacle light, then the figure of the mate, just turning near the taffrail to walk forward, and finally the dark, shadowy pile of canvas towering away aloft until it melted into the general obscurity.
“It has gone very dark again, Mr Bowen,” remarked the skipper, as the mate, becoming aware of George’s presence on deck, joined him.
“It is dark, sir,” answered the mate, “almost too dark to be poking about here in the Channel without lights.”
“It is rather risky, I admit,” returned George; “still, I do not think it is so dangerous as showing our lights; that would simply be hanging out an invitation to those prowling French privateers to pounce down on us. How is her head?”—to the man at the wheel, George and the mate having by this time strolled aft together.
“No’th, half west, sir,” was the reply.
“Come, that is not so bad,” remarked George. “We shall fetch Plymouth yet in good time to join the convoy if all be—”
“A sail broad on the weather bow!” broke in the lookout forward, with startling abruptness.
Both George and the mate instantly directed their gaze in the direction indicated by the lookout; and presently a shapeless something like a blacker patch against the black background of the darkness loomed into view, about one point before the beam, showing by this rapid change in the respective positions of the two ships how near was the stranger.
“Why!” exclaimed Leicester, “he is coming right down for us; he will be into us. Port, port hard; up with your helm smartly, my lad,” to the man at the wheel. “Ship ahoy! Port your helm; can you not see us?”
“Ay, ay; oh, yesh,” was the response from the other vessel; and as it came floating down upon the wind the stranger took a broad sheer to port, showing herself to be a large lugger, and shot very neatly alongside the Aurora, the grappling-irons being cleverly hove into the barque’s fore and main-rigging, as the two vessels touched.
At the same moment some five-and-twenty Frenchmen, armed with cutlass and pistol, scrambled alertly in over the Aurora’s bulwarks, the leader singling out George, notwithstanding the darkness, and exclaiming, as he promptly presented a pistol at his head—
“Vat cheep dis is, eh?”
“The Aurora, of London,” was the answer, “Très bien! My cheep, the Belle Marie, est un corsaire Français, un—vat you call—privateere, et vous êtes mes prisonniers. It is ze fortune of war, messieurs; my turn to-night—yours to-morrow, perhaps—ha, ha! Now, my dear sares, as there not moosh time is, permettez moi,” and he flung open the companion-doors, motioning significantly to George and the mate to go below.
Poor George glanced swiftly round the deck, only to see that it was in complete possession of the Frenchmen, one of whom was already at the wheel. So, turning to Mr Bowen, and murmuring, “There is no help for it, I suppose,” he signed to the mate to lead the way, and then followed, dejectedly, the doors being smartly slammed-to after them, and the next moment they heard the sound of some heavy body being dragged up to and banged against the companion entrance, thus precluding the possibility of their stealing on deck again, and effecting a counter surprise.
The whole thing had been done so rapidly that it was not until he found the ship being once more hove about, with her head pointing toward the French coast, that Captain Leicester fully realised his situation. In less than ten minutes his ship had been taken from him, and himself confined in his own cabin, a prisoner. Had he not been on deck at the time of the occurrence, he would certainly have considered it an avoidable misfortune, to be accounted for only by the most gross carelessness; but as it was, he was fully able to understand that it was entirely due to the extreme darkness of the night, and the circumstance of the lugger and the barque stumbling over each other, as it were. But that made matters no better for him; he had lost his ship—his all—and now there loomed before him the immediate prospect of a dreary confinement—for many years perhaps—in a French prison. The thought goaded him almost to madness, and he sprang impatiently to his feet, and began to pace moodily to and fro over the narrow limits of the cabin floor.
Meanwhile the second mate—who had started out of his berth at the first shock of contact between the two vessels, and had made a rush for the deck, only to be confronted and driven back by a Frenchman with a drawn cutlass—was seated on the lockers alongside Mr Bowen, listening to that individual’s gloomy recital of the details of the capture.
The low murmur of the two men’s voices annoyed George in his then irritable frame of mind, and, to avoid it, he retired into his own state-room. The night being close and sultry, all the stern-ports were open, and as he entered the cabin the sound of a hail from to leeward came floating in through the ports. It was answered from the deck, and, kneeling upon the sofa-locker and thrusting his body well out of the port, the skipper became aware that the lugger was parting company, and that the hail he had heard was the voice of the French captain shouting his parting instructions to the officer he had left in charge of the prize. Looking away to leeward, in the direction from which the sounds had come, he was just able to distinguish the dark outline of the lugger, as she bore up and pursued her way once more to the eastward. After this a considerable amount of excited jabbering took place on deck, the word “Cherbourg” being so often repeated that George had no doubt it was to that port that the barque was to be taken; but in about half an hour all this died away, and perfect silence reigned on board once more.
From the moment that the lugger parted company a confused idea as to the possibility of retaking the barque had been gradually attaining definite shape in George’s mind. It was rather a desperate attempt to make, it is true, with himself and the two mates shut up there in the cabin aft, while the crew were doubtless confined in the forecastle, and with no possibility of effecting a junction with them. Still, if Bowen and Cross were willing to run the risk of assisting him, it might be worth while to try it.
Thinking thus, he drew his head inside the stern-port, and made his way back into the main cabin, where he found the two mates, with their arms crossed upon their chests, and their heads bowed upon their breasts, asleep.
Giving them a gentle shake apiece, to arouse them, he sat down beside them and asked them bluntly if they felt disposed to run a little risk in an attempt to retake the barque, and so avoid a French prison.
“You may reckon on me for one, sir, if you’ve hit upon anything likely in the shape of a plan,” heartily answered the chief mate; “and Cross here, I know, won’t hold back either, unless I’m greatly mistaken in him.”
“Never fear,” said Cross; “if you give the word, sir, and the ship is to be retook, we’ll have her. But how do you propose to do it?—it’ll have to be a surprise, I s’pose?”
“Listen,” said George. “What I propose is this. The stern-ports are all open; and I believe that, by assisting each other, we may manage to creep out through them on to the main-brace boom-iron, and thence make our way along the ship’s side, outside the bulwarks, forward, when, by watching our opportunity, we may possibly manage to overpower the guard on the forecastle, throw off the hatch, and release our own lads, and then we must just make a fight for it. We may perhaps—we three—manage to take along with us a cutlass and a brace of pistols each; but the men must do the best they can with hand-spikes, belaying-pins, and, in short, anything they can lay their hands upon.”
“A very promising plan indeed, sir,” answered the chief mate. “The next question is, when are we to set about it?”
“The sooner the better,” answered George; “so go at once, please, for your pistols; load them carefully; take a cutlass each from the rack; and then we will proceed to business.”
In a very few minutes the trio were ready. Going softly into George’s state-room, they paused for a minute or two to listen for any sounds which might furnish them with a clue to the condition of affairs on deck; but nothing was to be heard, save the occasional clank of the wheel-chains, and the low humming of a song by the helmsman.
“It is all curiously quiet on deck,” whispered George to his two companions; “I can’t quite make it out; it undoubtedly means one of two things, however—either they are keeping a very strict and careful watch, or none at all; we shall soon see which. Now, Cross, stand by to give me a hoist, if I seem to require it; I will go first, and as soon as I am fairly out of the way, Mr Bowen can follow.”
Kicking off his boots and stockings, the skipper thereupon, without further ado, mounted the lockers, and passing his body cautiously out of the weathermost stern-port, held on by the edge of the port with one hand, whilst he reached out and felt for the brace-iron with the other. This he soon found, and grasping it firmly with his right hand, began to work himself cautiously towards it. The task he had set himself proved, however, to be much more difficult than he had expected; the rake of the ship’s stern so greatly interfering with his freedom of motion that at first he feared he would be obliged to abandon the attempt altogether, as he foresaw that, the moment he released his hold upon the edge of the port, he must infallibly swing off backwards, and, unless he could manage to retain his grasp of the iron, drop overboard. So he slipped in through the port again, to explain this difficulty to the mates, and to caution them to be careful when it came to their turn, and then resumed his attempt.
Once more securing a firm grasp upon the brace-iron, he watched the roll of the ship, and, seizing the first favourable opportunity, boldly swung himself off into the air, where he hung suspended by one arm, with his feet almost touching the water. In another moment he had both hands upon the iron, and, giving himself a vigorous upward swing, he was soon able to throw his feet over the tautly-strained main-brace. To scramble up and place himself astride the brace-block was now an easy task, and, settling himself firmly there, he prepared to assist the chief mate, when he should make his appearance.
He had not long to wait. Hardly was he comfortably established in his comparatively safe position, when a hand appeared from behind the quarter-piece in search of the iron. George promptly seized and guided it to the object of its search, then firmly grasped the wrist with one hand, keeping the other ready to render further assistance.
“Look out, sir, I’m coming,” he heard the chief mate mutter, and then, with a tremendous swing, Mr Bowen’s body came into view. Quick as thought George leaned over and caught the disengaged hand, placed it too upon the iron, and then, rising to his feet and exerting his strength to the utmost, he proceeded to drag his chief mate up alongside himself.
“Now,” he whispered, as soon as he had got him there, “I shall begin to work my way forward at once, so as to be out of your way; but you had better stay and lend Cross a hand. I shall wait for you both in the fore-chains.”
So saying, he stepped off the brace-iron, planting his feet firmly on the broad beading which ran along the top edge of the sheer-strake, and leaning his body against the bulwarks, whilst he grasped the outer edge of the rail to steady himself, he speedily and easily reached the mizzen-chains.
Here, availing himself of the partial shelter and cover afforded by the lanyards and dead-eyes of the rigging, he cautiously raised his head above the level of the bulwarks, to survey the state of the deck inboard. The first object which met his view was the figure of the helmsman, rendered visible by the light of the binnacle-lamps as they beamed dimly out upon him and feebly lighted up his figure. He was leaning negligently against the wheel, with one arm thrown carelessly over it, and his eyes were vacantly fixed upon the cloudy heavens above him, with his thoughts evidently far away. Not another soul was visible, either forward or aft; but George thought he could make out the indistinct outline of something resembling a human figure seated on the bench to windward of the cabin companion. He continued so long his earnest gaze upon this object that he was quite startled to find his first and second mates beside him; and he came at last to the conclusion that, if it were indeed a human figure at all, it must be that of the prize-master—sound asleep.
Turning his glances from this object forward, he saw that the galley-door to windward was shut, whilst on the lee-side it was open, the reflection of a light inside shining pretty strongly upon the lee bulwarks and showing the shadows of men evidently in the act of eating and drinking.
“Do you see that?” whispered George to his two companions. “Nothing could possibly be more favourable to our plans. We will work our way forward as far as the main-rigging, when, I think, we may venture to slip over the bulwarks, and in on deck. Then we must creep very cautiously forward, find out the whereabouts of the watchman, or lookout, or whatever he is, and overpower him, if possible, without raising an alarm. That done, we will set free our own lads, and I have no fear whatever as to the result.”
The three adventurers then moved noiselessly forward until they came to the main-rigging, when they slipped in on deck, and, crouching low in the deep shadow of the weather bulwarks, crept along until they were within a dozen feet of the fore-scuttle. Here they paused, and began to peer anxiously about for the man they expected to find on watch on the forecastle.
“There he is, just forward of the cat-head,” whispered the second mate; and hastily snatching a heavy iron belaying-pin from the rail, he stole, crouching and noiseless as a cat, upon his unconscious enemy. Six seconds later a dull heavy blow was heard, followed by a faint groan, the dark object near the cat-head vanished, and Cross, returning to the skipper’s side, whispered—
“He’s all right; knocked the senses clean out of him, and then laid him quietly out on deck. I reckon he won’t come to hisself again for the next half-hour. Now, what’s the next move, cap’n?”
“The next thing,” answered George, “is to open the fore-scuttle, and quietly get our own lads on deck. I am surprised that they have not attempted to steal up of their own accord before this.”
On going to the forecastle hatch, however, they soon discovered the reason why the men were content to remain so quietly below, a large mooring hawser having been coiled down on the top of the hatch, thus effectually preventing the imprisoned men from raising it.
“We shall never be able to move this without giving the alarm,” said George. “We must contrive somehow to shut those fellows up in the galley, and keep them there.”
“That is easily done,” whispered the chief mate. “‘Cookey’ has a lot of firewood stowed away in the eyes of the long-boat; we must get hold of a piece, cut half a dozen wedges from it, and one of us must then slide-to the door on the lee-side, and wedge it tight with three of the wedges, whilst another of us at the same time wedges up the door to windward.”
He then glided away to the long-boat, and soon returned with a small piece of wood in his hand.
“Here we are,” he whispered; “now we’ll soon have them boxed up so tight that they won’t get out until we open the doors for ’em.”
Whilst speaking he had produced his knife from his pocket, and, notwithstanding the intense darkness, soon hacked out the half-dozen wedges, which, though very roughly shaped, were still good enough for the purpose.
“Now, sir,” said he in a low tone to George, “you take these three, let Cross go with you and slide-to the lee-door with a slam, and then you slip in the wedges and jam them tight home, while I will do the same to wind’ard, as soon as I hear Cross close the lee-door.”
George took the wedges, and, accompanied by Cross crept noiselessly up to the galley-door to leeward, Mr Bowen meanwhile making his way to the corresponding door on the weather side. There was a loud slam, a moment of silence, then a tremendous outcry, accompanied by the sound of heavy battering from inside the galley, and the three adventurers met again at the forecastle hatch.
“Now, then,” cried George, “we haven’t a moment to lose, so let us capsize the hawser bodily. Are you ready? Then, one—two—three, Heave!”
By exerting their whole strength to the utmost the heavy hawser was rolled off the hatch, and the hatch itself raised, just as two figures came rushing forward from the quarterdeck with loud and angry outcries.
“Tumble up, my lads!” shouted George down the scuttle; “tumble up smartly, and help us to retake the ship.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” was the eager answer from below, and then the skipper, drawing his cutlass and pistol, turned to meet the prize-master and the helmsman, who had both hurried forward to learn the meaning of the disturbance in the galley.
“Surrender, or you are a dead man!” exclaimed George, thrusting the muzzle of his pistol into the face of the as yet only half-awake prize-master.
“Oui, oui, m’sieu; oh, yais, I surrendaire,” exclaimed the poor fellow, as he felt the firm pressure of the cold pistol-barrel against his forehead; and hastily unbuckling his cutlass, he thrust it into George’s hand.
The chief mate, in the meantime, had incontinently felled the other man to the deck with a single blow from his fist, and had then left Cross to secure him with a rope’s end. The barque’s crew had meanwhile made their way on deck, and were now clustered about their officers, anxious to know what they were to do, whilst the Aurora, left to herself, had shot up into the wind’s eye, and was now lying stationary, with all her square canvas aback, and the rest of her sails fluttering loudly in the wind.
“One hand to the wheel, and jam it hard up,” commanded George; “the rest of you to your stations. Mr Bowen and Mr Cross, you will mount guard over the galley-doors, if you please, until we have got the ship round. Raise tacks and sheets, round with the main-yard, and flatten in forward. Well, there, with the main-braces. Now swing your fore-yard, board the fore and main-tacks, and haul over the head-sheets. Right your helm, my lad; give her a spoke or two, if you find she wants it, as she gathers way, and then keep her ‘full and by.’ Now, lads, never mind about coiling up just now; you can do that after we have attended to the prisoners; come forward and open the weather galley-door, and as the Frenchmen pass out, seize them and lash their hands and heels together.”
These orders were promptly executed, the discomfited Frenchmen being permitted to pass out of the galley only one at a time. Cross’s burly form, drawn cutlass and conspicuously displayed pistol, supported by the appearance of the barque’s crew in his immediate background, proving an effectual deterrent to any attempt on the part of the privateersmen to make a rush for freedom, and in something like a couple of hours from the time of her capture, the Aurora, was once more in the undisputed possession of her rightful owner.