To you, Julia, the details of sea-life would have little interest. We were stationed off the coast of France; and from our captain’s daring character, he had been intrusted with a sort of roving commission, and allowed to employ the frigate almost as he pleased. During a six-months’ cruise, nothing, for brilliancy or effect, could exceed the services he had rendered to his country. In every French harbour the Harpy’s exploits were known and her captain’s name associated with those of England’s most daring and fortunate commanders.
From the moment I entered the frigate as a volunteer, I had been fortunate enough to become a favourite with Captain O’Brien. In a successful night-attack upon a battery and privateer, in which we dismantled the one, and Cut out the other, my conduct was honourably mentioned by the first lieutenant, and the captain’s clerk having been killed on the occasion, I was promoted to fill the vacancy. In this confidential situation I acquitted myself with credit—and to the hour of his death, was treated by the warm-hearted Irishman more like an equal than an inferior.
The period of our cruise had expired, and an order came for the frigate to return to England and refit. At sunset, the vessel sent to relieve us was seen in the distance; and before dark, she had exchanged numbers with the Harpy. In all our gallant crew not one heavy heart could have been discovered. After a daring and successful cruise, next morning the frigate’s head would be turned to the white-cliffed island from which, for nine months, we had been estranged; and all, from “the noblest captain in the British fleet” to the smallest ship-boy, felt the charm which attends a return to fatherland, and slept to dream of “England, home, and beauty.”
Three hundred men rested that night in full security—and how-few were fated to see another sunset! Morning dawned—the breeze was light; the ocean mists rose rapidly; gradually the sea view enlarged; and every eye turned in that direction where the ship, arrived from England, might be expected to present herself. At last, a sail was announced from the mast-head, and the Harpy’s course was altered towards the stranger’s. In half-an-hour, the ship in sight was proclaimed by the look-out men “a heavy frigate.” The private signal was made—some minutes passed—the signal was unanswered—and every glass and eye were directed towards a ship now ascertained to be an enemy.
In a moment orders were given to crowd canvass on the frigate. The drum beat to quarters; the sails were accurately trimmed; and, as if she had determined to sustain her well-earned reputation to the last, the Harpy dashed through the water gallantly—and for every two knots the chase sailed, we went three.
When the frigate was under a cloud of sail, Captain O’Brien retired to his cabin to dress, leaving orders that the progress of the chase, from time to time, should be reported. As he passed me, he touched my arm and whispered me to follow him. I did so. The captain desired his servant to retire, put on his uniform, affixed a foreign order to his breast, and, having unlocked a drawer, he took from it a sealed packet, and thus addressed me.
“Rawlings,” he said, “from the hour you entered this frigate, I have remarked your character and conduct. From the high opinion I formed of both, I selected you to fill a place of trust, and I am now about to give you what may be a last proof of confidence.
“I am the founder of my own fortune. My father was an humble curate, not ‘passing rich on forty pounds a year,’ but poor as a church-mouse, and my mother the daughter of a farmer. I was born in one of the remotest villages on the western coast of Ireland; and, except the advantages of education—the only boon my poor father could bestow—I had nothing to distinguish me in boyhood from the sons of the fishermen who inhabited our secluded hamlet. Like them, the sea was the element I loved; and, but for an accident, like them also, I should have lived and died upon that element unknown.
“One evening, when I was about twelve years old, a message came from the only publie-house the village boasted, to say that a sick stranger had arrived and was most anxious to see a clergyman. The summons was obeyed; and my father was introduced to an elderly man, who seemed to be dangerously ill, and greatly exhausted by his journey. He announced himself a lieutenant of a man-of-war; he had been for several years on the West-India station; was now on leave of absence for bad health; and was endeavouring to reach a town at a considerable distance from our hamlet, to try whether native air might not yet effect a cure. The exertion, however, had been too much for him; and on arriving at the public-house, he found himself unable to proceed farther.
“The parson was a kind-hearted being, and as hospitable as he was poor. The ale-house was noisy and uncomfortable, and he therefore pressed the stranger to take up his residence at our cottage, where, with quiet and care, it was probable that he might speedily come round again. My father’s invitation was accepted; and in a few days the invalid was so far restored as to be enabled to resume his journey. He took his leave accordingly, gratefully acknowledging the kindness and attention of my parents, to which he attributed his recovery.