The Grateful Indian, and Other Stories

by William Henry Giles Kingston

The frigate made all sail in pursuit of the stranger, a large schooner under French colours. The chase stood into a bay defended by a fort, where she was seen to anchor with springs to her cables. Along the shore a body of troops were also observed to be posted. The drum beat to quarters as the “Blanche” worked up towards the fort, when, the water shoaling, she anchored and opened her fire in return for that which the fort, the schooner, and the soldiers were pouring in on her. Captain Faulkner’s first object was to silence the fort. This was soon done. The schooner, which it was clear was heavily armed, must be brought out. The boats were called away, under command of the second lieutenant. Pearce leaped into the one to which he belonged. A master’s mate, Fitzgibbon, had charge of her, and Dick Rogers formed one of her crew. Harry Verner was in another. Away the boats dashed, at a rate boats always do move pulled by British seamen when a prize is to be taken. The Frenchmen worked their guns bravely. A shot disabled the leading boat. Pearce, sitting by Fitzgibbon’s side, heard a deep groan, and before he could even look up the master’s mate fell forward, shot through the head. His boat took the lead. “Now’s your time,” cried Dick Rogers; “we’ll be the first aboard, lads.” The crew were not slack to follow the suggestion. In another moment they were up to the schooner, and, leaping on her deck, led by Pearce, laid on them so fiercely with their cutlasses that the Frenchmen, deserting their guns, sprang over the bulwarks into their boats on the other side nearest the shore, and, before another boat reached the vessel, pulled away towards where the troops were marching down to their support. The cables were quickly cut, and amid a shower of ballets sail was made, and the prize carried out. “I said as how he’d do it—I said he wouldn’t be wanting,” exclaimed Dick Rogers, as he gave his account of the cutting out expedition to his chums on board. “He’ll do more too come another occasion.” That occasion did occur before many days were over. Two days afterwards the “Blanche” was joined by the “Quebec” frigate, and together, when sailing by Guadeloupe, they discovered the French thirty-six-gun frigate “Pique” lying at anchor in the harbour of Pointe-à-Pitre, ready for sea. Not to deprive his brother captain of the honour he might obtain by engaging an antagonist so worthy of him, Captain Carpenter parted company, and the “Quebec,” steering westward, was soon out of sight. The next thing to be done was to get the French frigate to come out from under her protecting batteries to fight. This seemed no easy matter, for prizes were captured and sent away under her very nose, and still she did not venture forth. At length, however, on the memorable evening of the 4th of January, the “Blanche,” towing off another prize in triumph, the “Pique” was seen to follow. The sun went down. It was the last many a brave man was destined to see. Darkness had come on, when the French frigate was observed through the gloom astern. The “Blanche” tacked in chase.

In the solemn hour of midnight, while darkness covered the face of the deep, the two vessels approached each other, their relative positions clearly distinguished by the light from the fighting-lanterns which streamed from their ports. The British crew, mostly stripped to the waist, stood at their quarters, grim and determined, with the gun-tackles in hand, eager for the moment to open fire. Pearce was on the quarterdeck. Young as he was, the whizzing of shots and the whistling of bullets scarcely made his heart beat quicker than usual, and yet, as in gloom and silence he waited for the signal when the bloody strife must commence, he felt an awe creep over him he had never before experienced. Nearer and nearer the combatants drew to each other. The “Pique” commenced the fight. The “Blanche” returned her distant fire; and, after various manoeuvres, the two frigates ranged up alongside each other and hotly engaged, broadside to broadside, in the fashion in which British tars have ever delighted. Fiercely the two crews fought; the French, once having began, proved themselves no unworthy antagonists. The main and mizen-masts of the “Blanche” fell, and the French, seizing the moment, ran alongside and attempted to board. The British crew sprang up to repel them. Among the foremost was Pearce, with Dick Rogers by his side. With their sharp cutlasses they drove the Frenchmen back. Again the guns roared as before. Once more the French ship fell aboard the “Blanche,” her bowsprit touching the latter’s capstan. Captain Faulkner hurried to secure it there, for the “Pique,” thus held, was exposed to the raking fire of his frigate. Among those who flew to assist him were Pearce Ripley and Dick Rogers, the Frenchman’s musketry playing hotly on them. “This is something like what you did in the old ‘Marlborough,’ sir,” said Dick to Pearce, so loud that all might hear him—so many did, and noted the words. Death was busy around them. While he was passing the lashing the young and gallant Captain Faulkner fell to the deck—a musket ball had pierced his heart. That was no time for grieving, even for one well-beloved as the captain. A hawser was being got up from below to secure the enemy’s ship; but before it could be used she broke adrift, to the disappointment of the British tars. A cheer, however, burst from their throats as, directly afterwards, the “Blanche,” paying off for want of after-sail, the “Pique,” while attempting to cross her stern, fell once more aboard her. This time they took good care to secure the bowsprit to the stump of their mainmast; and now, running before the wind, the “Blanche” towing her opponent, the fight was continued with greater fury than ever. In vain the Frenchmen strove to free themselves by cutting the lashings—each time they made the attempt the marines drove them back with their musketry. Still it seemed doubtful with whom victory would side. The “Blanche” had no stern ports through which guns could be fought; the carpenters were unable to aid them. A bold expedient was proposed. The guns must make ports for themselves through the transom. Firemen with buckets were stationed ready to extinguish the fire which the discharge would create. With a thundering roar the guns sent their shot through the stem, and, the fire being extinguished, they began to play with terrific effect into the bows of the French frigate. Her foremast was immediately shot away; her mizen-mast was seen to fall. Still her crew, getting their quarter-dock guns trained aft, fought on; but what were they to the “Blanche’s” heavy guns, which mercilessly raked her, the shot entering her bow and tearing up her deck fore and aft, sweeping away numbers of her crew at each discharge. “If those Mounseers are not made of iron, they’ll not stand this battering much longer,” cried Dick Rogers, who was working one of the after-guns. Pearce was standing near him. The space between the decks was filled with smoke, through which the twinkling light of the lanterns could scarcely penetrate, the flashes at each, discharge showing the men, begrimed with powder, with sponge and rammers ready to load, or with their tackles to run in their guns. A cheer from the deck told them that the Frenchman’s remaining mast had fallen, and now another and another that the foe had struck. The “Pique” was totally dismasted; the “Blanche” had but her foremast standing. Every boat was knocked to pieces, and how to get on board the prize, still towed by the hawser, was the question. “The hawser must form our bridge,” cried Mr Milne, the second lieutenant of the ship, springing on to it, followed by Pearce, Rogers, and several men. Their weight brought the rope down into the water. For some distance they had to swim till they could climb up by it on board. What havoc and destruction a few short hours had wrought. Of a crew not far short of three hundred men, one-third lay dead or wounded, the deck covered with gore and the wrecks of the masts and spars; guns lay dismounted, bulwarks knocked away, all telling the tale of the bravery and hardihood of both the combatants. When the sun arose there lay the victor and the conquered almost equally helpless. Such was one of the scenes through which young Ripley fought his way upwards, and gained a name and fame.

III.

The person who is constantly keeping his eye on the reward he aims at is very likely to stumble and fall, and never to reach it. He, on the contrary, who thinks only how he can best perform his duty will be upheld and encouraged, and very probably obtain a higher reward than any at which he might have aspired. Pearce Ripley found this to be true in his case. Duty was his leading star. It never occurred to him to say, “Will this please my captain?” “Will this advance me in the service?” The “Blanche” was soon refitted and at sea again. Several prizes were made, and, greatly to his satisfaction, he was appointed to the command of one of them, with Bonham as his mate, and Dick Rogers as boatswain. She was a richly-laden West Indiaman, recaptured from the enemy. He was ordered to take her to England, where, on his arrival, he found his commission waiting for him.

Pearce received a right hearty welcome from his father, and intense was the satisfaction of the brave seaman when his son showed him his commission and appointment as second lieutenant to the “Vestal,” an eighteen gun sloop of war, commanded by Captain Gale, and destined for the North American station.

“You have got your first step up the ratlins, Pearce. Go on as you have begun, and Heaven preserving your life, there is no reason why you shouldn’t reach the highest,” said the proud father, as he once more parted from his son.

Those were days of pressgangs, and Dick Rogers took good care to hide away till he ascertained the craft Pearce was to join, when he at once volunteered for her. Bonham, who had still a year to serve, was appointed to the same ship. The “Vestal” had a quick run across the Atlantic till within about five days’ sail of Halifax, Nova Scotia, when a heavy gale sprang up, which tried to the utmost her seaworthy qualities. The sloop behaved beautifully, hove to, and rode buoyantly over the raging seas. Well indeed was it for her that she was properly handled, for the gale went on increasing till the oldest seamen on board declared that they had never met with such another. It continued for a week, each day the wind blowing harder and harder, or if there was a lull it seemed to come only that the gale might gain greater strength. For days not a glimpse of sun, or moon, or stars had been obtained. It was the morning watch; the grey cold dawn had just broke. Pearce was on deck, when sweeping his eye round the horizon as the sloop rose to the summit of a sea he perceived on the lee beam the hull of a ship, rising and sinking amid the tumultuous waters. At first he thought she was keel up, but as the light increased he saw that she was a large ship with the stump of the foremast alone remaining. That she was in a bad plight was very clear. She was remarkably low in the water he fancied, and who could say how long even she might keep afloat.

The captain, being summoned, soon came on deck. To bear sway for the stranger would be a work of danger to the “Vestal.” Still who could tell how many human beings might be on board that sinking ship! With hatches battened down and men lashed to the helm, the captain resolved to go to the rescue.

The seas came roaring up with furious rage, as the sloop flew before them, some breaking aboard; and rounding to under the stern of the ship, she again hove to. Many people appeared on the deck of the stranger who, stretching out their arms, implored assistance. How was it to be afforded? Would a boat live in such a sea? Such appeals to British seamen are never made in vain. Pearce Ripley offered to make the experiment if men were found ready to go with him. There was no want of volunteers. A boat was lowered. It seemed as if she must be engulfed before she left the sloop’s side. Ripley’s progress was watched by eager eyes from both ships. Now he is in the trough of the sea, a watery mountain about to overwhelm him; now he is on the summit surrounded by driving foam. A shout is raised as he neared the sinking ship, but to get alongside was even more dangerous than the passage from one to the other. As the ship rolled and her deck was exposed to view, he saw that there were women on board, and other people besides the crew. Ropes were hove to him. He seized one, and sprang up the side. A few hurried words told him what had occurred. The ship was conveying troops and stores to Halifax, the master and first mate had been washed overboard, the second lay wounded by the falling of a spar. Many of the crew had been lost with the captain. There was no sea officer who could enforce orders; the men were mutinous. Ripley instantly assumed the command. There were several ladies. “They must first be placed in safety before a man enters the boat,” he cried out, presenting a pistol at some seamen who showed an intention of leaping into her.

Some entreated that their husbands might accompany them. “Oh, father, father, come with me,” exclaimed a fair girl, who was being conveyed to the side to be lowered into the boat; “I cannot, I will not leave you.” She looked towards a fine, soldier-like man, who stood with several officers around him. “Impossible! Heaven protect you, dearest. Even for your sake I cannot desert my post. It is here with my men,” was the answer. The boat had already nearly as many persons in her as it would be safe to carry. This was no time for delay. Pearce lifted the young lady in his arms, and lowered himself with her into the boat. The boat returned to the “Vestal,” and all those who had been rescued were put on board. The young lady again and again entreated him to save her father, Pearce promised to make every effort to bring off the colonel. “But unless his men are rescued, I doubt that he will leave the ship,” he added, as he returned to his boat.