Old Jack

by William Henry Giles Kingston

We had armed ourselves with the soldiers’ weapons, so that, had there been a strong breeze off-shore, we should not have been afraid to have attacked and attempted to cut out any merchant vessel or other well-armed craft. As it was, Mr Ronald judged that it would be wiser to endeavour to capture one of the fishing-boats he had seen. Muffling our oars, therefore, in dead silence we pulled out towards the largest of the fleet, and which lay the outermost of them all. Gliding alongside, we stepped softly on board. Her crew were, as we expected, asleep, and before they had opened their eyes we had our hands on their throats and our knees on their bosoms. As there were only three men and a boy, we easily mastered them; and, having bound and gagged them, we put them into the forepeak, while we proceeded to haul up the anchor and get the vessel under way.

As soon as we could attend to our prisoners, we made signs to them that we would not hurt them; and I fancied that they considered themselves very fortunate in not having their throats cut, or being thrown overboard, by those terrible monsters, “les bêtes Anglais.” There was a light air off the shore, and, with very great satisfaction, we stood away from it. Anxiously we looked towards the coast we were leaving, but, as far as our eyes could pierce the gloom, we could not discover any vessel in pursuit of us. Still we were not free from danger, as we were likely enough to fall in with a French vessel, and again find ourselves prisoners. Mr Ronald, who was as kind and thoughtful as he was brave, told me to go to sleep; but my arm gave me too much pain to allow me to do so.

The hours of night passed by, and day dawned; the bright sun arose on a cloudless sky. The coast of France rose in blue ridges astern of us, but not a sail was in sight all round the horizon. As our prospect of escaping recapture improved, our appetites, which we had not thought about, reminded us that we had gone a long time without eating; but when we came to examine the fishermen’s lockers, we found only a little black bread aboard, and a most scanty supply of water. They made us understand that their boat had gone on shore with some of their comrades to bring off water and provisions. Mr Ronald insisted on preserving most of the water for me, as a fever was already on me, and I was suffering dreadfully from thirst.

The wind was very light, and we made but little way. As the sun rose, however, clouds began to collect to the northward, and the sky overhead became covered over with those long wavy white lines which go by the name of “mares’ tails,” and which always betoken wind. Still we stood on as before. Every now and then, however, a puff would come which threw the sails aback; but it quickly passed away, to be succeeded shortly by a stronger and more continuous one. At last the breeze headed us altogether, freshening up rapidly, till Mr Ronald called all hands to reef sails. The wind soon got the sea up, and in a short time we were pitching away close-hauled, with the boat’s head to the north-west. Changed, indeed, was the weather since the morning: then all had been bright, and blue, and calm; now, in the afternoon, the sky hung dark and gloomy, with heavy clouds, and green foam-topped seas danced wildly around us. I do not know what Mr Ronald thought about the matter, but as I lay on my back suffering from pain, hunger, and thirst, I began to question whether the ill-found boat would live through the sea which was getting up.

Meantime a sharp look-out was kept for any vessel which might put us on shore anywhere on the English coast. At length a sail was seen to the eastward, and after watching her for some time, both Mr Ronald and Peter were of opinion that she would cross our course. This news cheered the spirits of all hands, for they had begun to suffer painfully from hunger and thirst. No one had taken more than a very small piece of black bread, for we could not deprive the poor French fishermen of their share of food. We were most anxious, on several accounts, that the stranger should get up to us before dark—in the first place, that we might ascertain whether she was friend or foe, and also lest we should miss her altogether. Should she prove French, we hoped, in spite of our hunger, still to avoid her. To mislead any enemies, we got out the Frenchmen’s clothes left on board, and rigged ourselves out as fishermen.

“I feel pretty sure that vessel is English, sir,” said Peter, who had been watching the stranger. “But still I can’t make out what is the matter with her; she has been handled pretty roughly, I suspect.”

Mr Ronald pronounced her to be a brig-of-war without any after-sail set; and as she drew near, we saw that there was good reason for this, as her mainmast had been carried away by the board, while her hull also had been much knocked about. It was clear that she had been in action. Mr Ronald waved to her; and, to our no small satisfaction, we saw her clewing up her sails to speak to us.

Before going alongside, however, Mr Ronald released the Frenchmen, and, as he thought, explained to them that we were going on board the brig, and that they might return to the French coast. The Frenchmen stretched their limbs, and looked about them while we were going alongside the brig. This was an operation not altogether easy or free of risk, but we succeeded in getting hold of her. Mr Ronald went up first, followed by the other men; and as I was far too weak to help myself up, Peter had gone up the side, and was singing out for a rope, when the Frenchmen, instigated by what notion I know not, but fancying, I believe, that they were to be made prisoners, cut off the tow-rope, and hoisting the foresail, put down the helm, and stood away from the brig. Active as monkeys, they soon swayed up the mainsail, and, hauling close on a wind, they rapidly left the brig astern. I saw Peter eagerly waving to them to come back, and I have no doubt but that he fancied if they did not they would murder me. The brig, having no after-sail, could not haul her wind, so that my shipmates were perfectly unable to recover me. I certainly could do nothing to help myself, so I lay quiet, and trusted that the Frenchmen would have pity on me. I still thought they might murder me; and, at all events, expected that I should be sent to a French prison. I only hoped that we might not reach the part of the coast we had come from, for I could scarcely expect to escape being put to death when it was known that I was one of the party who had killed the French soldiers placed to guard us.

I do not think, at the same time, that the Frenchmen had any murderous intentions. They were so pleased at recovering their boat and their liberty, that they were inclined to treat me civilly, if not kindly, and they continued to supply me with bread and water as I required. As we were half-way across the Channel, and they had lost their reckoning, we were not likely, I hoped, to make a good landfall in their attempt to reach their home.

With anxious eyes I watched the brig on board which my shipmates had taken refuge, but darkness coming on, we very soon lost sight of her. My heart sunk within me, and I burst into a fit of tears, the first I had shed for many a long year. They were as anxious to avoid meeting any vessel as we had just been to find one. The wind had again chopped round to the southward, and though not blowing very strong, we made but little progress.