Harry Fenwick was the son of a small landed proprietor in the south-west of England, who, having unfortunately embarked his whole fortune in a mercantile speculation, was, by a sudden loss, reduced to poverty. The distress occasioned by this misfortune was increased by the sudden death of his wife, which so preyed upon his spirits that he soon after died of a broken heart, leaving poor Harry and his little sister Susan unprotected in the world. But Providence, who watches over the orphan and the destitute, soon raised them up a protector in the person of a maternal uncle, who, having been abroad for a number of years, had amassed a handsome fortune, but arrived in England too late to close the eyes of his sister. Having no children, he determined to adopt his nephew and niece, who, from that day, became as his own. Harry was fourteen years old on the death of his parents; and his uncle, Benjamin Davis, determined to bring him up to his own profession—that of a sailor. He was accordingly entered as a midshipman on board the Ranger, a fifty-gun ship, where his conduct was such, that he rose from one degree to another, till, at length, in an engagement with a ship of superior metal, he so distinguished himself, that, in reward for his bravery, he was promoted to the command of the brig Hawk, mounting eight twelves and two short carronades, with a crew of eighty hands, as smart fellows as ever sailed on salt water. At the time when our story begins, Harry had left his ship at Leith, to visit an old friend of his uncle’s, at whose house he was a frequent visiter. Certain it is, that however much Harry loved the yarns and company of the old tar, yet there was another no less powerful attraction, in the person of his gentle and lovely daughter Maria. Maria Everet was not what most people would call a beauty; but the grace and symmetry of her slight figure, her sweet, pensive manners, and the melodiousness of her voice, threw around her a charm which captivated much more effectually than those whose beauty dazzles at first sight.
Often would Maria listen, in silent wonder and admiration, to the conversations between her father and Harry, of hairbreadth escapes, of storms and battles; and, stealing a timid glance at the young and hardy sailor, she would sigh, and, like Desdemona, would desire him to repeat again what he had been relating. Harry, on the other hand, felt interested in the lovely girl. At first he esteemed her for her father’s sake, but a better acquaintance made him love her for her own; and it was with secret joy and inward gratification that the old father observed the growing attachment between Harry and his daughter. Often would Harry, when cruising on the coast, think of the peaceful home of the old sailor, where dwelt she whom he loved above all the world; and, however far absent, his thoughts, like the needle in his compass, always reverted to the north. Great, then, was his disappointment, when, on arriving at Everet’s house, he found that Maria had gone to England to visit his uncle Ben and sister Susan. Without stopping longer than to take a night’s rest, he set out for Berwick, where his ship was to wait till his arrival; and, as he was bound for Plymouth, after an eighteen months’ cruise, he determined to call on his uncle, who dwelt on the sea coast. But to return to our story.
By the time the vessel had reached the mouth of the harbour, our old friend, Bill Curtis, was hurrying along the pier, blowing like a porpoise, and bawling out to the porter who accompanied him—
“Come, bear a hand, my lad—I see they are just manning the six-oared gig!”
On the approach of the gig, Harry leaped down to the landing-place, and stepped on board. In a moment, the caps of the sailors were doffed in salutation to their commander; and a smile of pleasure lighted up their weather-beaten countenances as he addressed them in a kindly manner.
Harry was received on the quarter by his first and second lieutenants; when the sailors, no longer restrained by the presence of their commander, and bursting with impatience, asked all at once—
“Well, Bill, what’s brought the captain and you so soon back?—has the bird flown?”
“Avast a bit,” cried Bill—“I must first fill up a hole in my stomach, big enough to hold a hogshead.” So, bursting past, he descended the companion-ladder, and straightway betook himself to the galley, where the cook, an old tar who had got his larboard fin carried away by a cannon ball, was serving, out of a monstrous ladle, a mess of beef and greens to the old pilot and his boat’s crew, who were already devouring with their eyes the promised feast—“Shiver my tafferel, if I don’t think I could swallow a shark, bones and all, for sheer hunger!” roared Bill. So saying, he slapped his knife into the beef, and ate as heartily as if he had not tasted meat for a week.
At this instant, the boatswain’s whistle was heard piping up all hands.