There is but little more to tell, for the rescue of the Golden Gates crew proved to be the last adventure that befell us on this extraordinarily eventful voyage. We made a very rapid run across to the China coast, and were detained but a short time in the Canton river, freights happening to be rather high and tonnage somewhat scarce—for a wonder—about the time of our arrival; I therefore met with no difficulty in obtaining a freight, with quick despatch, and within three weeks of our arrival we were once more at sea, this time Homeward-Bound! I must not forget to mention, by the way, that almost my first act, upon arriving at Hong Kong, was to write home two somewhat lengthy letters—one to my mother, acquainting her with the successful result of my quest, together with a full and detailed narrative of my adventures since leaving Sydney; and the other to my old and trusty friend, Mr Richards, acquainting him also with my success, and requesting him to undertake certain rather delicate negotiations for me, as well as to make certain preparations against the time of the Esmeralda’s arrival in the English Channel. Our homeward passage was as prosperous as it was uneventful. We were no sooner clear of our moorings than we caught a favourable breeze that followed us all the way until we had rounded the Cape of Good Hope and had caught the south-east trades, which in their turn carried us right up to, and indeed a few miles to the north of, the Line. Here we met with the usual light baffling airs, with plenty of rain and perhaps rather more than the average allowance of thunder and lightning. But this weather lasted only a trifle over forty-eight hours, when a small easterly air came to our rescue and fanned us along to the northward until we finally fell in with the north-east trades, the beneficent influence of which carried us as far north as the parallel of twenty-eight degrees. Here again kind Fortune favoured us; for when at length the trade-winds failed us, the wind gradually hauled round from the southward, and thence from the westward and north-west, hardening all the time, until at length it blew quite a fresh gale, which sent us bowling and staggering away to the northward and eastward under single-reefed topsails with topgallant sails over them, reeling off our fourteen knots hour after hour, and enabling us to hold our own for a whole day with one of the West Indian mail-boats, homeward-bound, much, no doubt, to the chagrin and astonishment of her officers. The breeze continued to freshen, however, and the sea to rise, necessitating first the handing of our topgallant sails, and, a little later on, the further reefing down of our topsails, when the great steamer gradually drew away from us, and by next morning was out of sight. This slant lasted us for four days, when the wind gradually softened into a moderate sailing breeze, veering all the time until it finally worked round from the southward once more, bringing with it mild, genial, sunshiny weather, that carried us right up the Channel to Portland Roads, which we entered on a lovely summer evening, nine months, almost to a day, from the date upon which we had quitted it, at the commencement of the voyage.
I was of course careful to have the ship’s number and burgee conspicuously displayed as we entered the roadstead, and I also observed the precaution of standing far enough over towards the Weymouth side of the bay to permit of the flags being distinctly made out before bringing the ship to an anchor; the result of which was that, before the canvas was well clewed up, a small steam launch emerged from Weymouth Harbour, and in due time deposited my dear mother and my very good friend Mr Richards upon the Esmeralda’s deck.
Of the joyous meeting that ensued—of my dear mother’s smiles and tears and caresses and ejaculations of gratitude at my safe return—and of Mr Richards’ hearty congratulations at my successful achievement—I will say nothing; the picture may very well be left to the vivid imagination of the reader. I need only state that, after the first bustle and excitement of the meeting had passed over, Mr Richards drew me carefully aside and remarked—
“It is all right, my dear boy; everything is arranged. I have put the whole affair into the hands of Tom White—a man whom I would trust with my very life—and he will come off to you with half a dozen ‘lerrets’ and a strong gang of thoroughly reliable men at two o’clock to-morrow morning. Hand over your cases of treasure to him without hesitation, and he will take care of them for you. He knows exactly how to manage the business, trust him, for he was a smuggler in his youth, when smuggling was still a paying business, as were his forbears for generations before him; so it is in the man’s blood, you see.”
And as Mr Richards had said, so it proved. The night was, luckily, very dark, and therefore exactly suited to our purpose; and promptly at two o’clock, the man White, with his fleet of “lerrets,” came gliding noiselessly alongside out of the darkness, and in less than half an hour every ounce of the treasure was out of the ship, with nobody a bit the wiser. The next morning a man came alongside offering crabs for sale, and before leaving the ship, he slipped a crumpled, dirty piece of note-paper, smelling strongly of fish, into my hand; upon opening which I, with some difficulty, deciphered the following communication:—
“Deer Sur the boxis be awl rite yours to command T. White.”
Is there anything else to tell? Well, yes; there is just one further item of information that may interest some at least of my readers. I remember remarking, in the course of my narrative, that toward the latter part of my acquaintance with Miss Merrivale—dating particularly from the capture and recapture of the ship at the treasure island—that very charming young lady’s demeanour toward me underwent a certain subtle, indefinable, puzzling, but exceedingly agreeable change; and after we had left China and were on our homeward voyage—when, in short, I had leisure to give a proper amount of thought and attention to so important a matter—I determined to ascertain what it meant.
Now, this is not a love story, so I will not enter into the particulars of how I first of all fell to questioning myself as to why this change of manner should have proved so agreeable to me; nor will I describe the mental process by which I quickly arrived at the conclusion that it was because Agnes Merrivale was, beyond all question, the sweetest and most lovable, as well as the most charming and lovely woman it had ever been my good fortune to encounter. Nor will I attempt to describe the devious methods and the complicated stratagems by which—having arrived at this conclusion—I painfully sought to obtain some slight inkling or clue to the sweet girl’s sentiments toward myself. Let it suffice to say that they were all signally, miserably, unsuccessful. You, my dear reader, would of course have managed infinitely better; I am well aware of that. But remember, if you please, that I was only a plain, unpolished sailor; a man who, maybe, could handle a ship fairly well, take care of her in a gale of wind, and navigate her successfully from port to port, but who had until now had no experience of women and their ways. Moreover, I would have cut off my right hand rather than have said or done anything to offend one of the sex worthy the name of woman. So, for the first time in my life, I was fairly nonplussed and unhappy; knowing full well what I wanted, but not knowing what steps I ought to take in order to insure to myself a fair chance of obtaining it. Such a state of mind, however, is not likely to be long tolerated by a sailor; my good sense came to my aid, and whispered that if my love loved me, I had only to give her the opportunity to say so, and all would be well. So one night—how well I remember it! it was pitch-dark, and we were just clear of the Straits of Sunda, rolling merrily along before a fresh easterly breeze under every rag that we could pack upon the ship—I got the dear girl to myself for a while upon the poop, and told her in simple, sailorly language exactly what were my feelings and hopes. We were promenading the poop together, arm in arm, while I spoke, and she heard me to the end without a word. Then she stopped, and placing both her hands in mine, said, with an unmistakable quiver of emotion in her voice—
“Thank you, Jack, for the most priceless gift a man can offer a woman—the gift of a loyal, loving heart. I accept it gratefully, dear, and will do my best to make you happy; for I believe I have loved you from the very first, my darling.”