CHAPTER X.
IN COMMAND OF THE SQUADRON.
One night about seven years after this, the handsome fifty-four gun frigate, the Naiad, flagship of Admiral Beaumont’s squadron, and the sloops-of-war Vixen and Spitfire lay at anchor off a town on the South American coast.
The night was clear, although there was no moon, and the harbor lights shone steadily. The town itself was full of life and light, the governor’s castle blazed, and across the dark water floated the inspiring music of several military bands. A grand official reception in honor of the admiral and his officers was in progress.
Walking the deck of the Naiad was Brydell, now a handsome young ensign. He wore a look of sublime resignation. He had a wholesome appetite for receptions, but it being his watch that night he was obliged to remain on board. In vain had he made all sorts of advantageous offers of exchanging duty with the other young watch officers, of whom Maxwell, his old acquaintance of the Constellation, was one, and Cunliffe was another. Brydell had pleaded, cajoled, and stormed; the other fellows only laughed at him and went off to enjoy themselves.
“Just look over there at the Spitfire,” growled Brydell to himself—the Spitfire was commanded by Brydell’s father. “Dad hates these affairs and has let all the fellows go and stays at home and keeps ship himself. I wish our captain was an unsocial widower like dad.”
And as if to exasperate him further came a burst of music from the shore, borne fitfully over the water. Brydell glanced cynically up at the frigate’s lights which indicated by their arrangement that both admiral and captain were on shore, while the Spitfire, a short distance off, although looming up indistinctly, yet showed by the lanterns on her shadowy spars that her captain was aboard.
“However,” thought Brydell, slamming his cap fiercely on his head, “Admiral Beaumont is nearer right than my father, for he gets all the solid fun there is out of life. That’s the sort of admiral I mean to be.”
Brydell had enjoyed every moment of his cruise on the flagship. It was Admiral Beaumont’s last sea service before his retirement. They expected to sail for home within a few days, and when the admiral hauled down his flag it would be for good. He had been known as a great martinet, but for the last few weeks he had become rather more indulgent, especially in the matter of shore leave; and now, for the first time on the cruise, the ship had on her only one lieutenant, Verdery; one ensign, Brydell; two young naval cadets, and one assistant engineer.
As Brydell walked the deck some strange thoughts crossed his mind. They had that day taken on board from the Vixen a number of men whose time was up, and who were to be conveyed back to the United States, while the Vixen remained on the South Atlantic station.
And among them was a sailor rated on the ship’s books as “William Black, able seaman,” whom Brydell instantly recognized, in spite of a heavy full beard, as Esdaile. He had heard nothing of Grubb’s disgraced son in all those seven years, and had thought that an American man-of-war was the last place on earth to look for him. But he concluded that Esdaile had no doubt spent his little patrimony and had probably enlisted for a living, failing in other things.