Ran Away to Sea - Mayne Reid

Reader! I might describe other scenes of peril, through which my brave companion and I passed, before that joyful hour, when our eyes rested upon the white sails of a ship—a strong, fine ship that lifted us from the bosom of the ocean, and carried us once more to land—ay, even to our native land. I shall not weary you with the details. Suffice it to say, that we were rescued—else how could I be living to tell the tale?

Yes—I still live, and so does my companion—both of us still follow the sea, but no longer under the rule of an arbitrary tyrant such as the captain of the Pandora. No! we are both captains ourselves—I of an East Indiaman; and Ben the master—and part owner, too—of a fine barque in the African trade—a barque quite equal to the Pandora.

But not that African trade—no. My old friend is an honest dealer. His merchandise is not black men, but yellow gold-dust, white ivory, palm-oil, and ostrich plumes; and after each “trip” to the African coast, Ben—as I have been given to understand—makes a “trip” to the Bank of England, and there deposits a very considerable sum of money. I rejoice in his prosperity, and I have no doubt that you, reader, will do the same.

We are not ignorant of the fate of the slaver’s crew. Not one of them, either those in the gig or on the raft, ever again saw the shore. They perished upon the face of the wide ocean—miserably perished, without hand to help or eye to weep over them. No eye beheld them but that of the Omnipotent—no hand but His was near; and it was near—for it was the hand of God that avenged their victims!

The End.