W.H.G. Kingston

"True Blue"

Chapter One.

True Blue—A British Seaman of the Old School.

The old Terrible, 74, was ploughing her way across the waters of the Atlantic, now rolling and leaping, dark and angry, with white-crested seas which dashed against her bows and flew in masses of foam over her decks. She was under her three topsails, closely reefed; but even thus her tall masts bent, and twisted, and writhed, as if striving to leap out of her, while every timber and bulkhead fore and aft creaked and groaned, and the blocks rattled, and the wind roared and whistled through the rigging in chorus; and the wild waves rolled and tumbled the big ship about, making her their sport, as if she was a mere cock-boat.

Stronger and stronger blew the gale; darkness came on and covered the world of waters, and through that darkness the ship had to force her way amid the foaming, hissing seas. Darker and darker it grew, till the lookout men declared that they might as well have shut their eyes, for they could scarcely make out their own hands when held at arm’s length before their noses.

Suddenly, however, the darkness was dispelled by the vivid flashes of lightning, which, darting from the low hanging clouds, circled about their heads, throwing a lurid glare on the countenances of all on deck. Once more all was dark; then again the forked lightning burst forth hissing and crackling through the air, leaping along the waves and playing round the quivering masts. Now the big ship plunged into the trough of the sea with a force which made it seem as if she was never going to rise again; but up the next watery height she climbed, and when she got to the top, she stopped as if to look about her, while the lightning flashed brighter than ever; and then, rolling and pitching, and cutting numerous other antics, she lifted up her stern as if she was going to give a vicious fling out with her heels, and downwards she plunged into the dark obscurity, amid the high foam-topped seas, which hissed and roared high above her bulwarks. Her crew walked her deck with but little anxiety, although they saw that the gale was likely to increase into a hurricane; for they had long served together, they knew what each other was made of, and they had confidence in their officers and in the stout ship they manned.

The watch below had hitherto remained in their hammocks, and most of them, in spite of the gale, slept as soundly as ever. What cared they that the ship was roiling and tumbling about? They knew that she was watertight and strong, that she had plenty of sea-room, and that they would be roused up quickly enough if they were wanted. There was one person, however, who did not sleep soundly—that was her Captain, Josiah Penrose. He could not forget that he had the lives of some eight hundred beings committed to his charge, and he knew well that, even on board a stout ship with plenty of sea-room, an accident might occur which would require his immediate presence on deck. He was therefore sitting up in his cabin, holding on as best he could, and attempting to read—a task under all circumstances, considering that he had lost an eye, and was not a very bright scholar, more difficult of accomplishment than may be supposed. He had lost an arm, too, which made it difficult for him to hold a book; besides, his book was large, and the printing was not over clear, a fault common in those days; and the paper was a good deal stained and injured from the effects of damp and hot climates. He was aroused from his studies by a signal at the door, and the entrance of one of the quartermasters.

“What is it, Pringle?” asked the Captain, looking up.

“Why, sir, Molly Freeborn is taken very bad, and the doctor says that he thought you would like to know,” was the answer. “He doesn’t think as how she’ll get over it. Maybe, sir, you’d wish to see the poor woman?”

“Certainly, yes; I’ll go below and see her,” answered the Captain in a kind tone. “Poor Molly! But where is her husband—where is Freeborn? It will be a great blow to him.”

“It is his watch on deck, sir. No one liked to go and tell him. He could do no good, and the best chance, the doctor said, was to keep Molly quiet. But I suppose that they’ll let him know now,” answered the quartermaster.

“Yes; do you go and find him, and take him below to his wife, and just break her state gently to him, Pringle,” said the Captain.

Captain Penrose stopped a moment to slip on his greatcoat, and to jam a sou’wester tightly down over his head, before he left the cabin on his errand of kindness, when a terrific clap was heard, louder than one of thunder, and the ship seemed to quiver in every timber fore and aft. The Captain sprang on deck, for the moment, in his anxiety for the safety of his ship, forgetting his intention with regard to Molly Freeborn.

Poor Molly! There she lay in the sick-bay, which had been appropriated to her use, gasping out her life amid the tumult and disturbance of that terrific storm. She was one of three women allowed, in those days, under certain circumstances, to be on board ship for the purpose of acting as nurses to the sick, and of washing for the officers and men. Her husband was captain of the maintop, and as gallant and fine a seaman as ever stepped. Everybody liked and respected him.

But Molly was even a greater favourite. There was not a kinder-hearted, more gentle, sensible, and judicious person in existence. No one had a greater variety of receipts for all sorts of ailments, and no one could more artistically cook dishes better suited to the taste of the sick. Most of the officers, who had from time to time been ill and wounded, acknowledged and prized her talents and excellencies; and the Captain declared that he considered he owed his life, under Providence, entirely to the care with which she nursed him through an attack of fever when the doctor despaired of his life.

“All hands on deck!” was the order given as soon as the Captain saw what had occurred. The main-topsail had been blown from the boltropes, and the tattered remnants were now lashing and slashing about in the gale, twisting into inextricable knots, and winding and wriggling round the main-topsail yard, rendering it a work of great danger to go out on it. The boatswain’s whistle sounded shrilly through the storm a well-known note. “All hands shorten sail!” was echoed along the decks. “Rouse out there—rouse out—idlers and all on deck!” Everybody knew that there was work to be done; indeed, the clap made by the parting of the sail had awakened even the soundest sleepers. Among the first aloft, who endeavoured to clear the yard of the fragments of the sail, was William Freeborn, the captain of the maintop. With knives and hands they worked away in spite of the lashing they got, now being almost strangled, and now dragged off the yard.

The Captain resolved to heave the ship to. The wind had shifted, and if they ran on even under bare poles, they would be carried on too much out of their course. It was a delicate and difficult operation. A new main-topsail had first to be bent. It took the united strength of the crew to hoist it to the yard. At length the sail was got up and closely reefed, hauled out, strengthened in every possible way to resist the fury of the gale. It was an operation which occupied some time. The fore-topsail had to be taken in. The helm was put down, and, as she came slowly up to the wind, the after-sail being taken off also, she lay to, gallantly riding over the still rising seas. Though she did not tumble about, perhaps, quite as much as she had been doing, her movements were far from easy. She did not roll as before, as she was kept pressed down on one side; still every now and then she gave a pitch as she glided down into the trough of the sea, which made every timber and mast creak and quiver, and few on board would have been inclined to sing:

“Here’s a sou’wester coming, Billy,
Don’t you hear it roar now!
Oh help them! How I pities those
Unhappy folks on shore now!”

At length William Freeborn was relieved from his post aloft, and came down on deck. Paul Pringle, his old friend and messmate, who had been hunting for him through the darkness, found him at last. Paul grieved sincerely for the news he had to communicate, and, not liking the task imposed on him, scarcely knew how to begin.

“Bill,” said he with a sigh, “you and I, boy and man, have sailed together a good score of years, and never had a fall-out about nothing all that time, and it goes to my heart, Bill, to say any thing that you won’t like; but it must be done—that I sees—so it’s no use to have no circumbendibus. Your missus was took very bad—very bad indeed—just in the middle of the gale, and there was no one to send for you—and so, do you see—”

“My wife—Molly!—oh, what has happened, Paul?” exclaimed Freeborn, not waiting for an answer; but springing below, he rushed to the sick-bay, as the hospital is called. The faint cry of an infant reached his ears as he opened the door. Betty Snell, one of the other nurses, was so busily employed with something on her knees, that she did not see him enter. The dim light of a lantern, hanging from a beam overhead, fell on it. He saw that it was a newborn infant. He guessed what had happened, but he did not stop to caress it, for beyond was the cot occupied by his wife. There she lay, all still and silent. His heart sank within him; he gazed at her with a feeling of terror and anguish which he had never before experienced. He took her hand. It fell heavily by her side. He gasped for breath. “Molly!” he exclaimed at length, “speak to me, girl—what has happened?”

There was no answer. Then he knew that his honest, true-hearted wife was snatched from him in this world for ever. The big drops of salt spray, which still clung to his hair and bushy beard, dropped on the kind face of her he had loved so well, but not a tear escaped his eyes. He gladly would have wept, but he had not for so many a long year done such a thing, and he felt too stunned and bewildered to do so now. He had stood as a sailor alone could stand on so unstable a foothold, gazing on those now placid and pale unchanging features for a long time,—how long he could not tell,—when Paul Pringle, who had followed him to the door of the sick-bay, came up, and, gently taking him by the shoulders, said:

“Come along, Bill; there’s no use mourning: we all loved her, and we all feel for you, from the Captain downwards. That’s a fact. But just do you come and have a look at the younker. Betty Snell vows that he’s the very image of you, all except the beard and pigtail.”

The latter appendage in those days was worn by most sailors, and Bill Freeborn had reason to pride himself on his. The mention of it just then, however, sent a pang through his heart, for Molly had the morning before the gale dressed it for him.

Freeborn at first shook his head and would not move; but at last his shipmate got him to turn round, and then Betty Snell held up the poor little helpless infant to him, and the father’s heart felt a touch of tenderness of a nature it had never before experienced, and he stooped down and bestowed a kiss on the brow of his newborn motherless child. He did not, however, venture to take it in his arms.

“You’ll look after it, Betty, and be kind to it?” said he in a husky voice. “I’m sure you will, for her sake who lies there?”

“Yes, yes, Bill; no fear,” answered Betty, who was a good-natured creature in her way, though it was a rough way, by the bye.

She was the wife of one of the boatswain’s mates. Her companion, Nancy Bolton, who was the wife of the sergeant of marines, was much the same sort of person; indeed, it would not have done for the style of life they had to lead, to have had too refined characters on board.

“Bless you, Freeborn—take care of the baby, of course we will!” added Nancy, looking up from some occupation about which she had been engaged. “We’ll both be mothers to him, and all the ship’s company will act the part of a father to him. Never you fear that. As long as the old ship holds together, he’ll not want friends; nor after it, if there’s one of us alive. Set your mind at rest now.”

“Yes, that we will, old ship,” exclaimed Paul Pringle, taking Freeborn’s hand and wringing it warmly. “That’s to say, if the little chap wants more looking after than you can manage. But come along now. There’s no use staying here. Bet and Nancy will look after the child better than we can, and you must turn in. Your hammock is the best place for you now.”

The gale at length ceased; the ship was put on her proper course for the West Indies, whither she was bound; the sea went down, the clouds cleared away, and the glorious sun came out and shone brightly over the blue ocean. All the officers and men assembled on the upper deck, and then near one of the middle ports was placed a coffin, covered with the Union-Jack. There ought to have been a chaplain, but there was none; and so the Captain came forward with a Prayer-book, and in an impressive, feeling way, though not without difficulty, read the beautiful burial service to be used at sea for a departed sister; and the two women stood near the coffin, one holding a small infant; and there stood William Freeborn, supported by Paul Pringle, for by himself he could scarcely stand; and then slowly and carefully the coffin was lowered into the waves, and as they closed over it, in the impulse of the moment, the bereaved widower would have thrown himself after it, not knowing what he was about, had not Paul Pringle held him back. Down sank the coffin rapidly, and was hid to sight by the blue ocean—the grave of many a brave sailor, and of thousands of the young, and fair, and brave, and joyous, and of the proud and rich also, but never of a more kind-hearted honest woman than was Molly Freeborn. So all on board the Terrible declared, and assuredly they spoke the truth.

Chapter Two.

Onward across the Atlantic, as fast as her broad spread of white canvas filled by the wind could force her, glided the staunch old “seventy-four,” which bore our hero and his fortunes, though at that time they did not look very prosperous; nor was he himself, it must be acknowledged, held in much consideration except by his own father and his two worthy nurses. His fare, too, was not of the most luxurious, nor suited to his delicate appetite. Milk there was none; and the purser, not expecting so juvenile an addition to the ship’s company, had not provided any in a preserved state,—indeed, in those days, it may be doubted whether such an invention had been thought of,—while a round-shot had carried off the head of the cow in the last action in which the Terrible had been engaged. As she furnished fresh beef to the ship’s company, they would not have objected to a similar accident happening again.

Poor Molly’s child had, therefore, to be fed on flour and water, and such slops as the doctor and the nurses could think of. They could not have been unsuitable, for it throve wonderfully, and was pronounced by all the ship’s company as fine a child as ever was seen.

“Have you been and had a look at Molly Freeborn’s baby?” asked Dick Tarbrush of his messmate, Tom Buntline. “Do now, then. Such a pretty young squeaker. Bless you, it’ll do your heart good. He’s quite a hangel.”

Similar remarks were made, one to the other, by the men; and one by one, or sometimes a dozen of them together, would come into the women’s cabin to have a look at the baby, and then they would stand in a circle round him, with their hands on their hips or behind them, afraid to touch it, their pigtails stuck out as they bent down, their huge beards, and whiskers, and pendent lovelocks forming a strong contrast to the diminutive, delicate features of the infant, who might, notwithstanding, one day be expected to grow up similar in all respects to one of them.

After the gale, the Terrible encountered head winds, and light winds, and calms, and baffling winds of every description, so that her passage to the station was long delayed. It gave time, however, for the baby to grow, and for the discussion of several knotty points connected with him. The most knotty of them was the matter of his christening. Now, the crew held very much the same opinion with regard to their Captain that a certain captain held of himself, when one day he took it into his head to make his chaplain a bishop, that of his own sovereign will he could do all things. They knew that when there was no chaplain on board, he could bury a grownup person, and so they thought that he surely could christen a little infant. They accordingly, after due deliberation, resolved to send a deputation to him, requesting him to perform the ceremony.

After some discussion, it was agreed that it would be advisable to carry the baby itself with them, to strengthen the force of their appeal. It was thought better that the women should not appear; and Paul Pringle was selected unanimously to be the bearer of the child. Now honest Paul was a bachelor, and had literally never handled a baby in his life. He, therefore, felt an uncommon awe and trepidation, as half unwillingly and half proudly he undertook the office. However, at last, when coyly led forward, with his head all on one side and a beaming smile on his honest countenance, he found that his big paws, stretched out, made a first-rate cradle; though, not being aware of the excessive lightness of the little creature, he very nearly chucked it over his shoulders. Betty and Nancy, after arranging the child’s clothes, bestowing sundry kisses, and giving several important cautions, let the party of honest Jacks proceed on their errand.

“Well, my lads, what is it you want?” asked the Captain in a good-natured voice, as the seamen, being announced by the sentry, made their appearance at the door of the cabin.

Paul Pringle cleared his voice before speaking, and then he said, very nearly choking the baby in his mechanical attempt to pull a lock of his hair as he spoke:

“We be come for to ax your honour to make a Christian of this here squeaker.”

The good Captain looked up with his one eye, and now perceived the small creature that Paul held in his hands.

“Ah, you mean that you want him christened, I suppose,” answered the Captain, smiling. “Well, I must see about that. Let me have a look at the poor little fellow. He thrives well. See, he smiles already. He’ll be a credit to the ship, I hope. I’ll do what I can, my lads. I don’t think that there’s anything about it in the articles of war. Still, what can be done I’ll do, most assuredly.”

While Captain Penrose was speaking, he was looking kindly at the infant and playing his finger round its mouth. He had had children of his own, and he felt as a father, though little indeed had he seen of them, and they had all long since been taken from him.

“Now you may go, my lads, and I’ll let you know what I can do for you,” he said after some time.

On this the deputation withdrew, well pleased with their interview.

As soon as the men were gone, Captain Penrose turned to the articles of war, and all the rules and regulations of the service with which he had been furnished, and hunted them through, and turned them over and over again, but could find nothing whatever about the baptism of infants. Most assiduously he looked through his Prayer-Book: not a word could he discover authorising captains in the navy to perform the rite. He pulled down all the books on his shelves and hunted them over; there were not many, certainly, but they made up by their quality and toughness for their want of number: not a word on the subject in question could he find. For many an hour and for many a day did he search, for he was not a man to be baffled by a knotty point or by an enemy for want of exertion on his part, though at last he had to confess that in this matter he was beaten. He therefore sent for Paul Pringle, and told him that though he could bury all the ship’s company, and could hang a mutineer at the yardarm, or could shoot him on the quarterdeck, he had no authority, that he could find, for christening a baby. Much disappointed, Paul returned to his shipmates. In full conclave, therefore, it was settled, with poor Will Freeborn’s consent, that as soon as the ship reached Port Royal harbour, in Jamaica, the little fellow should be taken on shore to be christened all shipshape and properly. When the Captain heard of this, he gave his full consent to the arrangement, and promised to assist in its execution.

The flag of the gallant Sir Peter Parker was flying in the harbour of Port Royal when, after a long passage, the Terrible fired the usual salute on entering, and dropped her anchor there. Two or three days elapsed before the duty of the ship would allow any of the crew to go on shore. On the first Sunday morning, however, it was notified that a hundred of them might have six hours’ leave, and that if the infant was presented, after morning service, before the minister of one of the parish churches, he would perform the wished-for ceremony. Great were the preparations which had been made. Betty Snell and Nancy Bolton were dressed out with shawls, and furbelows, and ribbons of the gayest colours and patterns, and looked and thought themselves very fine. Nothing could surpass the magnificence of the child’s robe. All the knowledge of embroidery possessed by the whole ship’s company had been expended on it, and every chest and bag had been ransacked to find coloured beads and bits of silk and worsted and cotton of different hues to work on it. The devices were curious. There were anchors and cables twisting about all over it, and stars and guns, and there was a full-rigged ship in front; while a little straw hat, which had been plaited and well lined, was stuck on the child’s head in the most knowing of ways, with the name of the Terrible worked in gold letters on a ribbon round it. Certainly, however, nothing could be more inappropriate than the name to the little smiling infant thus adorned. Never had such a dress been worn before by any baby ashore or afloat.

Then his shipmates took care that Will Freeborn himself should be in unusually good trim, and they got him to let Nancy Bolton dress his pigtail, while Sergeant Bolton stood by, and got him into conversation; and as for Paul Pringle, he turned out in first-rate style, and so did two of Freeborn’s messmates and especial chums, Peter Ogle and Abel Bush, both first-rate seamen. All the men who had leave, indeed, rigged out in their best, and adorned themselves to the utmost of their power. The boatswain, also, got them a dozen flags, which they hoisted on boathooks and other small spars; and they had on board, besides, a one-legged black fiddler, and a sort of amateur band, all of whom were allowed to accompany them.

On shore early on Sunday morning they went, and marshalled as they landed from the boats which conveyed them on the quays of Kingston. The one-legged black fiddler, Sam, being the only professional, and the rated musician on board, claimed the honour of leading the way, followed by the rest of the band with their musical instruments. Then came the father of the baby, Will Freeborn, supported on either side by Paul Pringle and Peter Ogle, who each bore a flag on a staff; and next, Betty Snell, to whom had been awarded the honour of carrying the important personage of the day; and on one side of her walked Nancy Bolton, and on the other Abel Bush, one of the three proposed godfathers, with another flag. In consequence of the numberless chances of war, it had been agreed that the child should have three godfathers and two godmothers; besides which, each of the godfathers was to have a mate who was to take his place in case of his death, and to assist Freeborn in looking after his son, so that there was every probability of poor Molly’s son being well taken care of. These, then, came next, bearing aloft an ensign and a Union-Jack, while the rest of the crew, with more flags, rolling along, made up the remainder of the procession.

But the person who created the greatest sensation among the spectators, especially of his own colour, was Sam Smatch, the one-legged fiddler; nor did he deem himself to be the least in importance. No one was in higher feather. He felt himself at home in the country—the hot climate suited him; he saw numbers of his own race and hue, inclined, like himself, to be merry and idle. How he grinned and rolled his eyes about on every side—how he scraped away with his bow—how he kicked up his wooden leg and cut capers which few people, even with two, could have performed as well! As to the rest of the band, he beat them hollow. In vain they tried to play. If they played fast, he played faster; when they played loud, he played louder; for, as he used to boast, his instrument was a very wonderful one, and there were not many which could come up to it. The crowd of negroes who collected from every side to stare at the procession, admired him amazingly, and cheered, and shrieked, and laughed, and clapped their hands in gleeful approbation of his performance.

Thus the procession advanced through the streets of Kingston till it reached the church door, it wanted still some time to the commencement of service, so the men were enabled to take their seats at one end of the building without creating any disturbance. There was plenty of room for them, for unhappily the proprietors, merchants and attorneys, the managers of estates and other residents, were very irregular attendants at places of worship. The few people who did collect for worship stared with surprise at seeing so unusual a number of sailors collected together; and more so when the service was over, to see Paul Pringle, acting as best man, lead his friend Freeborn, and the two nurses, and the rest of his shipmates, up to the font.

The clergyman had been warned by the clerk what to expect, or he would have been equally astonished.

“What is it you want, my good people?” he asked.

“Why, bless your honour, we wants this here young chap, as belongs, I may say, to the old Terrible, seeing as how he was born aboard of her, made into a regular shipshape Christian.”

“Oh, I see,” said the minister, smiling; “I will gladly do as you wish. You have got godfathers and a godmother, I suppose?”

“Oh, Lord bless your honour, there are plenty on us!” answered Paul, feeling his bashfulness wear off in consequence of the minister’s kind manner. “There’s myself, Paul Pringle, quartermaster, at your honour’s service; and there’s Peter Ogle, captain of the foretop, and Abel Bush, he’s captain of the fo’castle; and then, d’ye see, we’ve each of us our mates to take command if any of us loses the number of our mess; and then as there’s the two godmothers Nancy and Betty, right honest good women, the little chap won’t fare badly, d’ye see, your honour.”

“Indeed, you come rather over-well provided in that respect,” observed the minister, having no little difficulty in refraining from laughing. “However, I should think that you would find two godfathers and one godmother, the usual number, sufficient to watch over the religious education of the child.”

“No, your honour,” answered Paul quietly; “I’ll just ax you what you thinks the life of any one of us is worth, when you reflexes on the round-shot and bullets of the enemy, the fever,—‘Yellow Jack,’ as we calls him,—and the hurricanes of these here seas? Who can say that one-half of us standing here may be alive this time next year? We sailors hold our lives riding at single anchor. We know at any moment we may have to slip our cable and be off.”

The clergyman looked grave and bowed his head.

“You speak too sad a truth,” he answered. “Now tell me, what name do you propose giving to the child?”

“Billy, your honour,” answered Paul at once.

“William?—oh, I understand,” observed the clergyman.

“No, Billy, your honour,” persisted Paul. “Billy True Blue, that’s the name we’ve concluded to give him. It’s the properest, and rightest, and most convenient, and it’s the name he must have,” he added firmly.

“But what is the father’s name? What is your name, my man?” asked the clergyman, turning to Freeborn.

Will told him.

“Oh, then I understand Billy True Blue is to be his Christian name?” said the clergyman.

“Yes, your honour,” answered Paul. “D’ye see, he’d always be called Billy. That would be but natural-like. Then where’s the use of calling him William? And True Blue he is, for he was born at sea aboard a man-o’-war, and he’ll be brought up at sea among men-o’-war’s men; and he’ll be a right true blue seaman himself one of these days, if he lives, so there’s an end on the matter.”

The last remark was intended as a clincher to settle the affair. The clergyman had no further objections to offer to the arguments brought forward, and accordingly the child was then and there christened “Billy True Blue,” to the infinite satisfaction of all his friends.

On leaving the church, the party adjourned to various houses of entertainment to drink their young shipmate’s health. Much to their credit, at the time appointed they reappeared on board, returning to the quay in the style they had come, none of them the worse for liquor. Captain Penrose had reason to be satisfied with his system of managing his ship’s company.

Chapter Three.

The Terrible was not allowed to remain long idle, for those were stirring times, as there were Frenchmen and Spaniards, and the Dutch and Americans to fight; indeed, all the great maritime countries of the world were leagued against Old England to deprive her, as they hoped, of the supremacy of the sea. Again the Terrible was under weigh, standing for the Leeward Islands to join the squadron of Sir George Brydges Rodney. A day or two after she sailed, the surgeon came to the Captain with an unusually long face.

“What is the matter, Doctor Macbride?” asked Captain Penrose.

“I’m sorry to say, sir, that we have two cases of yellow fever on board,” was the answer.

“What, Yellow Jack—my old enemy?” exclaimed the Captain, trying to look less concerned than he felt. “Turn him out then—kick him away—get rid of him as fast as possible, that’s all I can say.”

“More easily said than done, I fear, sir,” answered the surgeon, who was well aware that his Captain was more anxious than he would allow; for, from sad experience, he well knew that when once that scourge of the West Indies attacks the crew of a ship, it is impossible to say how many may be the victims, and when it may disappear.

“You are right, doctor. We must do our best, though, and put our trust in Providence,” answered the Captain gravely. “Let the men be on deck as much as possible. We will have their provisions carefully looked to, and we must have their minds amused. Let Sam Smatch keep his fiddle going. Fear of the foe kills many, I believe. Now if we could meet an enemy, and have a good warm engagement, we should soon put Yellow Jack and him to flight together. And I say, doctor, don’t let the men see that you are concerned any more than I am.”

After a little further conversation, the doctor took his departure.

The ship continued her course across the Caribbean Sea, with light winds and under the hottest of suns; and the fever, instead of disappearing, stealthily crept on, attacking one man after another, till fifty or sixty of the crew were down with it. Death came, too, and carried off one fine fellow, and then another and another, sometimes five or six in one day. At last there was a cessation, and the spirits of the sick as well as of the healthy revived; and Sam Smatch set to work and fiddled away most lustily, and the crew danced and sang, and tried to forget that there was such a thing as Yellow Jack on board. Several of the sick got better, and even the doctor’s and the Captain’s spirits revived. Once more it fell calm, and, as the Captain was walking the quarterdeck, Dr Macbride came up to him with a grave face.

“What is the matter now, doctor?” he asked in as cheerful a voice as he could command; for whatever he felt in private, he would not allow himself to appear out of spirits before his officers or crew. “What! not driven the yellow demon overboard yet? Kick him—trounce him—get rid of him somehow!”

“I am sorry to say, sir, that he has attacked the women,” answered the doctor. “Betty Snell is very ill, and Mrs Bolton is evidently sickening. What the motherless baby will do, I cannot say. Probably that will die too, and so be provided for.”

“Heaven forbid!” said the Captain, “for the honest father’s sake. The child will have plenty of nurses. We must not forget poor Molly—how nobly she braved Yellow Jack himself when the sick wanted her aid! We all are bound to look after the baby. The sooner it is taken away from the poor woman the better. Let me see. Tell Paul Pringle to go and get the baby and bring it up to my cabin. That is the most airy and healthy place for the little chap. We must rig out a cot for it there. Freeborn himself would feel bashful at taking his child there. Either he or Pringle must act as nurse, though. I have no fancy for having one of the ship’s boys making the attempt. They would be feeding him with salt beef and duff, or smothering him; and as for waking when he cries at night, there would be little chance of their hearing him. But I will go below with you, doctor, and visit the poor people. Come along.”

Saying this, the good Captain descended to the lower-deck with the surgeon. The weather side of the ship forward had been screened off and appropriated to the sick. As he appeared, those who were conscious lifted up their heads and welcomed him with a look of pleasure; but many were raving and shrieking in the delirium of fever, and others, worn out by its attacks, were sunk in stupor from which they were not to awake. Then the Captain visited the berth of the two women. Mrs Bolton was still struggling in a vain attempt to ward off the disease, and endeavouring to nurse poor little Billy; but she could scarcely lift her hand to feed him, and evidently a sickness and faintness was stealing over her.

The Captain said nothing, but going out, sent a boy to call Paul Pringle. He soon returned with Paul, who, stooping down, said quietly, “Here, Mrs Bolton, you feels sick and tired, I know you does. You’ve had hard times looking after Betty Snell, and I’ll just dandle the youngster for you a bit. You know you can have him again when you feels better and rested like.”

Thus appealed to, poor Nancy gave up the baby to Paul, who dandled it about before her for a minute; then as she was casting an affectionate glance at it, he disappeared along the deck with his charge. It was the last look she ever took of the infant she had nursed with almost a mother’s care. Her husband was sent for. In a short time she was raving, and before that hour the next day both she and Betty were no longer among the living. Their loss was severely felt, not only by their husbands, but by all the crew. They and forty of the men were committed to the deep before the termination of the passage.

At last the Terrible reached Gros Islet Bay, in the Island of Saint Lucia, that island having been captured by the English from the French. In a short time a considerable fleet collected there, under Admiral Sir George Rodney and Rear-Admiral Hyde Parker. Still the fever continued on board the Terrible and several other ships.

“Nothing but the fire of the enemy will cure us, Sir George, I fear,” observed Captain Penrose when paying a visit one day on board the flagship.

“Then, my dear Penrose, I hope that we shall not have long to wait, for they are collecting in force, I hear, round the Island of Martinique; and the moment the fleet is ready for sea, we’ll go out and have a brush with them,” was the Admiral’s answer.

This news was received with joy by every man in the fleet, and all exerted themselves more than ever to hasten its equipment. The Captain had some idea of leaving little Billy on shore, but both Freeborn and Pringle begged so hard that he might be allowed to remain that the Captain gave up the point.

“I don’t know how long I may be with the little chap,” observed poor Will. “It would break my heart to be separated from him; and if we go into action, we’ll stow him away safe in the hold, and he’ll be better off there than among foreign strangers on shore who don’t care a bit for him.”

There was much truth in this remark, and so little True Blue still continued under charge of his rough-looking protectors. It is extraordinary how well and tenderly they managed to nurse him and feed him, and how carefully they washed him and put on his tiny garments. Paul Pringle was even a greater adept than his own father; and more than once the Captain could scarcely refrain from laughing as he saw the big, huge-whiskered quartermaster in a side cabin, seated on one bucket, with another full of salt water before him, an apron, made out of a piece of canvas, round his waist, and a large sponge, with a piece of soap in his hand, washing away at the little fellow. The baby seemed to enjoy the cold water amazingly, and kicked and splashed about, and spluttered and cooed with abundant glee, greatly to Paul’s delight.

“Ah, I knowed it. He’ll be a regular salt from truck to kelson!” he exclaimed, looking at the little fellow affectionately, and holding him up so as to let his head just float above water. “He’ll astonish them some of these days. Depend on’t, Will,” he added, turning to Freeborn, who had come in to have a look at his child.

The Captain had directed the hammocks of the two men to be slung in this cabin, and little True Blue had a cot slung along close to the deck; so that if by chance he had tumbled out, he would not have been much the worse for it. As the father and his friend were in different watches, they were able, under ordinary circumstances, to relieve each other in nursing the baby; but when any heavy work was to be done, and the services of both of them were required on deck, Sam Smatch, who was not fit even for ordinary idlers’ work, was called in to act nurse.

This was an employment in which Sam especially delighted, and he would have bargained for a gale of wind any day in the week for the sake of having to take care of little True Blue. Billy, from the first, never objected to his black face, but cooed and smiled, and was greatly delighted whenever he appeared. Sam altogether took wonderfully to the baby, and used to declare that he loved it as much as he did his own fiddle, if not more. He would not say positively—both were his delight—both squeaked; but his fiddle was his older friend. Billy, indeed, never wanted nurses, and there was not a man on board who was not happy to get him to look after. The greatest risk he ran was from over-kindness, or from having a tumble among the numerous candidates for the pleasure of dandling him when once they got him among them on the maindeck; and no set of schoolgirls could make a more eager rush to snatch up the little child left among them, than did the big-bearded, whiskered, and pig-tailed tars to catch hold of Billy True Blue.

Among the other candidates for the pleasure of nursing little Billy was a young midshipman, known generally as Natty Garland. He had been seized with the fever, and been carried, for better nursing, into the Captain’s cabin. This was his first voyage away from home, where he had left many brothers and sisters. It was nearly proving his last. Although he looked so slight and delicate, however, he did recover; but it was some time before he was fit for duty.

Devoted to his profession, Natty Garland, in spite of his delicate appearance, became a first-rate, bold, and intelligent seaman, liked by his Captain, respected by his superior officers and his messmates, and an especial favourite with the men.

Just before Sir George Rodney had entered Gros Islet Bay, the French fleet, consisting of twenty-five sail of line-of-battle ships and eight frigates, under Admiral Count de Guichen, had been haughtily parading before the island, trying to draw out the then small and unprepared squadron of Rear-Admiral Hyde Parker. The British officers and men fumed and growled at the insult, longing for an opportunity of paying off the vapouring Frenchmen. Never, therefore, were anchors weighed with greater alacrity than when the signal was seen from Admiral Rodney’s ship for the fleet to make sail and stand out to sea. A course was steered for Fort Royal Bay, in the Island of Martinique, where the French fleet was then supposed to be. The English fleet consisted in all only of twenty line-of-battle ships and two frigates, but their inferiority in point of numbers in no way made the British seamen less eager to encounter the enemy.

Now the former order of things was reversed; the smaller fleet was blockading the larger, which was equally prepared for battle. It was a beautiful sight to see the stout ships, with their white canvas set alow and aloft, as they glided over the blue sea in front of the harbour containing their vaunting enemy. In vain they tacked and wore, and stood backwards and forwards, never losing sight of the harbour’s mouth. Every opportunity of fighting was offered, but the Frenchmen dared not come out.

At length Admiral Rodney, disgusted with the pusillanimity of the enemy, returned to his anchorage in Gros Islet Bay with most of the line-of-battle ships, leaving only a squadron of the faster sailing copper-bottomed ships and frigates to watch the enemy’s motions, and to give him notice should they attempt to escape. The seamen little doubted that they would soon have a brush with the enemy. Among all, none seemed to anticipate a battle with greater satisfaction than Will Freeborn. His spirits rose higher by far than they had done since the death of his wife; and that evening, when Sam Smatch struck up a hornpipe on the forecastle, no one footed it more merrily than did he.

“All right,” observed Paul, “I’m glad Will’s himself again. Poor Molly, she’d be pleased to see him happy—that I know she would, good soul.”

Whether Will’s heart was as light as his feet might be doubted. Several days passed, and the Frenchmen kept snug at their anchors. “They’ll move some day or other, and then we’ll be at them,” was the general remark. Still there they lay. None of the English crews was allowed to go on shore; but the ships were kept ready to weigh at a moment’s notice. Daylight had just broken on the 16th of April 1780, when a frigate under a press of sail was seen approaching the bay. A signal was flying from her masthead. It was one which made the British tars shout with satisfaction; it was, “The French have put to sea!”

Round went the capstans, up came the anchors, the broad folds of white canvas were let fall from the yards and sheeted home, and in the course of a few minutes the whole fleet was under weigh and standing out to sea. No one fiddled more lustily than did Sam Smatch, and a right merry tune he played, while the crew of the Terrible with sturdy tramp pressed round the bars of the capstan; and never was a topsail more speedily set than that under charge of Will Freeborn.

No sooner was the fleet clear of the harbour than the enemy was discovered in the north-west. Instantly the signal was made from the flagship, the Sandwich, for a general chase. How shrilly the boatswains sounded their pipes, how rapidly the men flew aloft or tramped along the decks, while sail after sail was set, till every ship was carrying as much canvas as could by any art or contrivance be spread on her yards! Beautiful and inspiriting was the sight. The enemy saw them coming, but did not heave-to in order to meet them, endeavouring rather to escape.

All day long the chase continued, and it was not until towards the evening that, from the British ships, it could be discovered that the Frenchmen’s force consisted of no less than twenty-three sail of the line, a fifty-gun ship, three frigates, a lugger, and a cutter. Darkness came on, however, before the British could get up with them; but sharp eyes all night long were eagerly watching their movements, and few on board any of the ships could bring themselves to turn in to their hammocks.

During the night the wind came round to the southward and east, greatly to the satisfaction of all on board the English fleet, and when morning broke the Frenchmen were seen close-hauled under their lee.

“What can them chaps be about now?” asked Will Freeborn of Paul Pringle as they stood near each other before going to their respective stations. “They are not going to sneak away after all, I hope.”

“I’m not quite so sure but that they are going to try it on, though,” answered Paul, eyeing the distant fleet of the French with no friendly eye. “But I’ll tell you what: Admiral Rodney is not the chap to let ’em off so easily. Ah, look! they are tacking again; they see it won’t do. Hurrah! lads, we’ll be at them now before long.”

The cheer was taken up by others, and ran along the decks, and was echoed from ship to ship along the British line. Every preparation was now made for immediate action. The magazines were opened, the powder and shot were got up, the bulkheads had long been down, the small-arms were served out, the men bound their heads with their handkerchiefs, threw off their jackets and shirts, buckled on their cutlasses, and stuck pistols in their belts. Meantime, as it had been arranged, Sam Smatch was sent to look after Billy True Blue, and to carry him down into the hold as soon as the ship was getting within range of the enemy’s fire.

“Let me just have a look at my boy!” exclaimed Will, as Sam brought him out on deck, as he said, to show him the enemy whom he would one day learn to thrash.

Will took the child in his arms, and he gave a glance of affection; then, giving little Billy back to Sam, he urged him not to delay too long in taking him below, and sprang aloft to his post in the top, to be ready to make any alterations that might be required in the sails while the ship was going into action.

Some hours from sunrise passed away, during which time the fleet was slowly approaching the reluctant enemy. It wanted but ten minutes to noon, when the signal flew out from the masthead of the Admiral for the fleet to bear down on the French, each ship to steer for and closely engage the one nearest to her in the enemy’s line. The order was received with a hearty huzza. It was promptly and exactly obeyed. Still, from the lightness of the wind, it was nearly one before the engagement became general. And now along the whole line arose dense volumes of smoke—bright flashes were seen, and the roar of the guns, and the shouts and shrieks of the combatants were heard. Thickly flew the round-shot—the gallant Admiral in the Sandwich was engaged with two big Frenchmen, who seemed to have singled her out for destruction, but right nobly and boldly did she bear the brunt of the action. Shot after shot struck her, many between wind and water, and some in her masts and spars, which in consequence threatened to go overboard. The Terrible, too, was hotly engaged with an opponent worthy of her. What her name was could not be discovered.

“Never mind!” was the cry; “we’ll soon learn when we make her haul down her flag!”

Hotter and hotter grew the action. Many were falling on both sides. Nearly all the English ships had lost both officers and men, killed and wounded; while, especially, they were dreadfully cut up in their rigging. Freeborn had come below to serve a gun.

“I see, mate, how it is!” cried Pringle to him. “Those Frenchmen are fighting to run away. It’s strange not one of our fellows on deck have been hit yet. They’ve aimed all their shot at our spars.”

“Hurrah! lads, then,” answered Will in a high state of excitement, which Pringle could not help remarking. “Fire away, lads. We’ll stop them if we can from running away, at all events.”

As he spoke he applied his match to his gun. At the moment it sent forth its missile of death he tottered back, and before Paul Pringle could catch him had fallen on the deck. Paul stooped down and raised up his head.

“It’s all over with me, Paul,” he said in a low voice; “feel here.”

There was a dreadful wound in his side, which made it appear too probable that his prognostication would prove true. The rest of the men near turned round with glances of sorrow, for he was a general favourite; but they had to attend to the working of their guns.

“Paul,” he continued, “you and the ship’s company will, I know, look after my motherless child. I leave Billy to the care of you all. Bring him up as a sailor—a true British tar, mind. There isn’t a nobler life a man can lead. I would not have him anything else. The Captain’s very kind, and will, I know, do his best for him. But I don’t want him to be an officer—that’s very well for them that’s born to it; but all I’d have liked to have seen him, if I had lived, is an open-hearted, open-handed, honest seaman.” Poor Will was speaking with great difficulty. His words came forth low and slowly.

“Yes, yes, Will,” answered Paul, pressing his friend’s hand. “We’ll look after him. There’s not a man of the Terrible who would not look at little True Blue as his own son; and as to making him a seaman, we none on us would dream of anything else. It would be utterly impossible and unnatural like. Set your mind at rest, mate, about that. But I say, Will, wouldn’t it do your heart good to have a look at the younker?”

“Not up here; a shot might hit him, remember,” answered the poor father. “And if they was to move me, I don’t think that I should ever be got below alive. No, no, Paul; I’ll stay here. It’s the best place for a sailor to die.”

Just then there was a cry that the enemy’s ships were retreating. First the Count de Guichen’s own ship, the huge Couronne, was seen standing out of the action, followed by the Triomphant and Fendant, leaving the Sandwich in so battered a condition that she could not follow. The other ships imitated their leader’s example. One after another, the British ships found themselves without opponents. They endeavoured to make sail and follow; but their running rigging was so cut up that few could set their sails, while the masts of many went over their sides. All they could do, therefore, was to send their shot rapidly after the flying enemy, and give vent to their feelings in loud hurrahs and shouts of contempt. The Frenchmen little thought how well this same running away was teaching the English to beat them, as they did in many a subsequent combat, until, learning to respect each other’s bravery, they became firm friends and allies, and such, it is to be hoped, they may remain till the end of time.

The sound of the shouts seemed to revive poor Will Freeborn.

“Now, mate, you’ll see Billy, won’t you?” said Paul. “It’ll do your heart good.”

Will smiled his assent. He was feeling no pain then. A boy was sent to summon Sam and the baby. Meantime the doctor came on deck.

“Let him lie here,” said he after a short examination; “his moments are numbered.”

Sam soon appeared. Paul took Billy from him, and, kneeling down, held the baby to the lips of the dying father. The men, no longer required to work the guns, clustered round the group. Will kissed his child and held him for a moment in his grasp.

“Shipmates,” said he, raising his voice, “you’ll all of you be kind to little True Blue—I know you will; there’s no use asking you. And God will look after him—I know He will, and forgive me my sins. Here, Paul, take the child—I’m slipping my cable, shipmates!”

He turned his eyes on the infant, and, pointing towards him, fell back into the arms of Abel Bush and Peter Ogle, who had come to have a last look at their old friend.

He was dead, and little True Blue was left an orphan.

Chapter Four.

Poor Billy True Blue little knew the loss he had experienced, when, as usual, he kicked and frisked about, and spluttered and cooed, as that evening Paul Pringle, with a sad heart, was dipping him in a tub, preparatory to putting him into his cot. Paul had soon to send for Sam Smatch to take his place, as he had plenty of work on deck in repairing damages. Besides being much cut up in hull and rigging, the fleet had suffered greatly, and had had six officers and one hundred and fourteen men killed, and nine officers and one hundred and forty-five men wounded. The Admiral’s ship, the Sandwich, had suffered the most severely; and it was only by the united exertions of her own and other ships’ companies that she was kept afloat during the night and all the next day, till she could be got back again into Gros Islet Bay. There every possible exertion was made to repair damages, so as to be in a state to go in search of the enemy.

It was not, however, till the 6th of May that Sir George Rodney received intelligence that the French fleet had left the Island of Guadaloupe, where they had been repairing their damages, and were approaching to windward of Martinique.

Once more the English fleet was ordered by signal to put to sea; and with no less zest than before the anchors were run up, and under a crowd of sail they stood out of the bay. The wind, however, was contrary, and for several days the ships had to continue beating against it through the passage between Martinique and Saint Lucia till the 10th, when, as the morning broke, the Frenchmen were seen mustering the same number as before, about three leagues to windward.

“Hurrah! we’ll have them now; they’ll not demean themselves by running away!” was the general shout on board the British ships.

Nearer the English approached. The French formed in line of battle and bore down upon them. The hearts of the British tars beat high. They thought the time they were looking for had assuredly come; but when scarcely within so much as random shot, the Frenchmen were seen to haul their wind, and being much faster sailers than the English, they quickly got again beyond speaking distance. The English seamen stamped with rage and disappointment, as well they might, and hurled no very complimentary epithets on the enemy.

“The time will come when we get up to you, Monsieur, and then we’ll give it you, won’t we?” they exclaimed, shaking their lists at the enemy.

Several times the French came down in the same style, as Paul Pringle remarked, “like so many dancing-masters skipping along, and then whisking round and scampering off again.”

Words will not describe the utter contempt and hatred the British tars felt in consequence of this for their enemies. Had the French mustered twice their numbers, and could they have got fairly alongside of them, yardarm to yardarm, they supposed that they could have thrashed them, and probably would have done so.

At last Admiral Rodney himself, in the hope of deceiving the enemy, made the signal for the fleet to bear away under all sail. The manoeuvre had the desired effect, making the French fancy that the English had taken to flight; and now growing bold, like yelping hounds, they came after them in full cry. The English captains guessed what was expected of them, and did their best to impede the progress of their ships, so as to let the enemy gain as much as possible on them. On the Frenchmen boldly came, till their van was nearly abreast of the centre of the English, who had luffed up till they had almost brought the fleet again on a bowline.

Now, to their great satisfaction, there was a shift of wind, which gave them the weather-gage. That was all Admiral Rodney wanted, and once more the hearts of the British seamen beat proudly with the anticipation of battle and victory.

The signal was made to engage. The British ships bore down on the enemy. It seemed no longer possible that he would decline to fight. On board the Terrible all stood ready at their guns, eyeing the foe. Sam Smatch had been despatched with his little charge into the hold, and ordered, unless he would incur the most dreadful pains and penalties, not to return on deck.

Sam grinned on receiving the order. He had not the slightest intention of infringing it. He was not a coward; but he was a philosopher. He had had fighting enough in his day. He had lost a leg fighting, and been otherwise sorely knocked about; and he had vowed, from that time forward, never to fight if he could help it. He had no king nor country, so to speak, to fight for; for though he had become a British subject, he had not appreciated the privileges he had thereby gained; and, at all events, they had failed to arouse any especial patriotic feelings within his bosom. Nothing, therefore, could please him better than his present occupation; and tucking his fiddle under one arm, and making a seat for the baby with the other, he descended with the most unfeigned satisfaction into the dusky depths of the bottom of the ship.

How intense was the indignation of the British seamen, when, just as they were within long range of the French, they saw ship after ship wear, and, under a crowd of sail, take to an ignominious flight! What showers of abuse were hurled after them, as were numerous random shots, though neither were much calculated to do them any harm. However, by seven in the evening, Captain Bowyer, in the Albion, who led the van, was seen to reach the centre of the enemy’s line. In the most gallant style he opened fire, supported by the Conqueror and the other ships of the van. In vain the ships of the British centre endeavoured to get into action. Every manoeuvre that could be thought of was tried, every sail was set. The brave old Captain Penrose walked his deck with hasty strides and unusual excitement.

“Oh, how I envy that fellow Bowyer!” he exclaimed. “How rapidly his men work their guns! We would be doing the same if we were there. However, the time will come when I shall have another stand-up fight with them before I die. It may be soon, or it may be some time hence; but the time will come, that I feel assured of.”

“I hope, sir, when it does arrive, you, and all with you, will come off victorious,” observed the second lieutenant, who was in no way inclined to enter into what he called the Captain’s fancies.

“No doubt about it,” answered the Captain. “I trust that I may never live to see the day when a British fleet is worsted by our old enemies, the French, or by any others who have ships afloat.”

In spite of the partial engagement taking place, the remainder of the French fleet continued its flight under a press of sail. Right gallantly the Albion and Conqueror continued the cannonade; but, again, the quicker heels of the French enabled them to keep out of the reach of the remainder of the British fleet, and finally carried them free of their pursuers.

Still, although night had closed in, Admiral Rodney persevered in following them up; but the wind had shifted, and given the French the weather-gage, an advantage which they employed in keeping out of action. Day after day passed, and then they were to be seen spreading over the blue sea in the far distance, but not daring to come nearer. Either they were waiting for reinforcements, or for some accident which might give them such a vast superiority that they would no longer have any fear of the result of a general engagement.

Great, therefore, was the delight of the British, when, on the morning of the 19th, the wind shifted suddenly, and enabled them to bear down under a press of sail on the enemy. The Count de Guichen could no longer, it was hoped, avoid an action; but, ere the English could get their guns to bear, the fickle wind again shifted and left the enemy the choice of engaging or not. Although the van of the French was to windward, their rear was still to leeward of the British van, now led by the gallant Commodore Hotham. Immediately he bore down upon them and opened his fire.

The Terrible was in this division, and took a leading part in the fray. Several ships on both sides were now hotly engaged. The French Admiral, seeing this, seemed to have made up his mind to risk a general action; and as soon as his van had weathered the British, which the shift of wind enabled him to do, he bore away along their line to windward and commenced a heavy cannonade, but at so cautious a distance that his shot did little damage. The Terrible’s opponent soon sheered off, and, having more speed than pluck, quickly got out of the range of her guns, greatly to the disgust of all the crew.

“Look here, mates; is this what those frog-eating Johnny Crapauds call fighting?” exclaimed Paul Pringle, pointing to de Guichen’s distant line, firing away at the main body of the British fleet. “Unless fellows are inclined to lay alongside each other, yardarm to yardarm, and have it out like brave men, to my mind they had better stay ashore and leave fighting alone.”

The sentiment was echoed heartily by all his hearers, and more particularly so, when in a short time the whole French fleet was seen fairly to take to flight, and, under a press of sail, to stand to the northward. The British fleet continued all the next day in chase; but, on the morning of the 21st, not a Frenchman was to be seen; and as many of the ships had suffered severely in these partial actions, and were much knocked about by long service, Admiral Rodney stood for Barbadoes, where they might undergo the required repairs. They arrived on the 22nd in Carlisle Bay.

It was not for some time that the crew of the Terrible had a moment to think of anything but the stern calls of duty. At last, however, the old ship was once more ready for sea, and then one spoke to the other about little Billy True Blue, and their promise to Will Freeborn; and it was agreed that an assemblage of the whole ship’s company should be held, to decide the course to be pursued for his rearing and education. The forecastle, or, as seamen call it, “the fo’c’s’l,” was the place selected for the meeting. Tom Snell, the boatswain’s mate, Sergeant Bolton, Peter Ogle, Abel Bush, Paul Pringle, of course, the three godfathers’ mates, and most of the petty officers, spoke on this important occasion. Sam Smatch would have been there, but he had to look after the baby in the cabin; he had, however, explained his opinion, and claimed the right of voting by proxy; which claim was fully allowed, seeing that he was absent on the public service. The warrant-officers were not present—not that they did not take a warm interest in the matter, but they did not wish to interfere with the free discussion in which the men might wish to indulge. Sergeant Bolton, however, came, and it was understood that he knew their feelings in all the important points likely to be broached. His rank might have kept him away, but he was present, because, as he said, “I ham, de ye see, the hinconsolable widower of Nancy Bolton, the hintfant’s nurse, and how do ye think hany one can have more hinterest in the hangel than I?”

Tom Snell was looked upon as a great orator; not the less so that he often enforced his arguments with a rope’s end.

“Mates,” said he, rising, when all the men were assembled, perched about in every available spot and in every possible attitude, and he brought one clenched fist down on the other open palm, with a sound which echoed along the decks, “this is how the case stands, d’ye see. There’s a baby born aboard this here ship, and that baby had a mother, a good real shipshape woman, who was as kind a nurse to all on us as was sick as could be. Well, I won’t talk on her; she dies, and two other women acts as nurses to the baby; they were good women too, but I won’t talk on them.” Tom passed the hairy back of his rough hand across his eyes, and continued: “Now the baby fell to the natural care like of his daddy, a true-hearted honest sailor as ever stepped. He’d have done honestly by him, and brought him up as a right real seaman, there’s no doubt; but, d’ye see, as ye know, mates all, a sneaking Frenchman’s round-shot comes aboard us and strikes him between wind and water, so to speak, and pretty nigh cuts him in two. Before he slipped his cable, many on you who stood near knows what he said to us. He told us that he gave the baby to the ship’s company—to look after—to be brought up as a seaman should be brought up. One and all on us would do the same and much more, as I know, for little True Blue, seeing as how he naturally-like belongs to us—ay, mates, and we would be ready to fight for him to the last; and if there was one thing would make us keep our colours flying to the last, it would be to prevent him falling into the enemy’s hands, to be brought up as a capering, frog-eating Frenchman. But, mates, d’ye see, this would be very well if we could all stick together aboard the same ship, and for his sake I knows we’d try to do it; but, as you knows, there are the chances of war—we may be separated—one may go to one ship, one may go to another, and who is he to go with, I should like to know? Now I don’t want that any on us should lose the pleasure and honour of looking after him, that I don’t—I’d scorn to be so unjust to any one; but we wants to settle when the evil time arrives when we, who has served together so long, and fought together, and stuck together like brothers and true seamen should, comes to be scattered, who the little chap, Billy True Blue, is to go with—that’s the point, mates, d’ye see? He can’t go with us all. He must be with some one on us, the primest seaman, too, who’ll teach him to knot and splice, to hand-reef and steer, and all the ways of a seaman. That’s what we has to do. We can’t teach him much yet, you’ll all allow, and the Captain says as how he’ll give nine dozen to any man as puts a quid of baccy in the younker’s mouth; so we can’t even learn him to chaw yet, which to my mind he’d do better nor anything else, as he’s most practice with his jaws just yet; but the time will come when he can use his fists, too, and the sooner he gets ’em into the tar-bucket the better, says I.” This opinion was loudly applauded by all present.

Tom made some further remarks to the same effect. “And now,” he concluded, “any one on you who has got anything for to say for or again’ what I’ve been a-saying, let him stand up on his legs and say it out like a man.”

Bill Tompion, one of the gunner’s crew, thereon arose with a sudden spring, and, having squirted a stream of tobacco juice through a port, exclaimed:

“What Tom says is all very true. No one here nor there will want to deny it; but what I axes is, who’s to have charge of the younker? That’s what I see we wants to settle. When I fires my gun, I doesn’t blaze away at the air, but looks along it and sees what I’m going to fire at, and takes my aim; and, d’ye see, if it’s an enemy’s ship not far off, I generally hits, too. Now that’s just as I was saying, mates, what we have to do. We wants to fix on fit and proper persons to look after our little chap aboard here,—the ship’s own child, I may say,—to see that he gets into no mischief, and to bring him up as a seaman should be brought up. Now I’d like to be one on those to look after him, and Tom would like to be one, and many on us would like to have the work, and most of us, ay, and all of us,” (there was a general cheer); “but, mates, it isn’t the men who’d like it most, but the men who is most fit, d’ye see, we are bound to choose. Now I speak for myself. I’m a thoughtless, careless sailor—I’ve run my head into more scrapes than I’d like to own. I’m very well afloat, but ashore I wouldn’t like to have on my conscience to have charge of that young chap, d’ye see; and as for Tom Snell, he’ll speak for himself. Betty Snell kept him straight, there’s no doubt of it; but now she’s gone, poor Tom’s all adrift again, and it’s just a chance if he goes for to splice once more, what sort of a wife he’ll pick up. Therefore, says I, neither Tom nor I’m the best man to look after Billy True Blue. But, mates,” (here Tompion stopped and struck his hands together), “I does say that I thinks I knows who is a good man, a fit man, and a friend and messmate of Will Freeborn, and that man is Paul Pringle. He’s what the parsons calls a godfather, and so I take it he’s a sort of a guardian like already, and he’s had charge of the little chap ever since poor Betty and Nancy lost the number of their mess; and if Paul will take charge, and I’m sure he will, I says, ‘Let him be one of the guardians.’”

Paul rose. “Mates all,” said he, giving a hitch to his waistband, “I thanks ye. Don’t you think as long as body and soul keep together I’d look after little Billy True Blue, who was born aboard this ship, whose father and mother was my friends, and who, I may say, is just like a son to me? I know you all sees this; but, mates, I may any day slip my cable, as you and all of us may do, but still one man’s life is not so good as three, and therefore, I says, let me have his father’s friends and messmates, Peter Ogle and Abel Bush, two good men and thorough seamen, to help me; and I can say that I believe one and all of us will do our duty by the boy—we’ll not fail to do our best to make him an honest man and a true sailor.”

There were no dissentient voices to Paul’s proposal. Never was a meeting for any subject held with so much unanimity. The three godfathers’ mates were chosen as their assistant-guardians, and thus, as far as numbers could ensure care, little True Blue had every chance of being well looked after.

Chapter Five.

Captain Penrose was very well pleased when he heard of the arrangements the seamen had made with regard to little Billy. More than once, however, he spoke to Dr Macbride and some of his officers about him in whom he had most confidence.

“As you know,” he remarked, “I am now childless, and have no kith or kin depending on me; and if the boy turns out well, when old enough, I think of getting him placed on the quarterdeck. The son of many a seaman before the mast has risen to the top of his profession. My wife’s grandfather was a boatswain; my father-in-law, his son, was an Admiral and a K.C.B. He won’t have interest; but if he’s a good seaman, and is always on the watch to do his duty,—to run after it, not to let duty come to him,—he’ll get on well enough, depend on that.”

The fleet of Sir George Rodney was now divided. While he despatched a portion, under Josias Rowley, to reinforce Sir Peter Parker at Jamaica, threatened by a powerful French squadron, he sailed with the greater part of the remainder for New York. It must be remembered that the American War of Independence was then going on, and that the French had promised to aid the insurgent colonists.

The old Terrible was still on the Jamaica station; but it was understood that she would soon be sent to join the squadron off New York. She and the gallant old Thunderer, 74, which had so long braved the battle and the breeze, were together, the crews of both eagerly looking out for an enemy.

There was an enemy approaching they little dreamed of. Cape Tiburon, at the west end of the Island of Hispaniola, or San Domingo, the name by which it is now better known, had been sighted the day before, so that all knew well whereabouts they were. There was a perfect calm, and the water was as smooth as the most polished glass—not a ripple was to be seen on it; but yet it was not a plain, for huge undulations came swelling up from the southern part of the Caribbean Sea, which made the big ships roll till their lower yards almost dipped into the water.

Captain Walsingham and several of the officers of the Thunderer, taking advantage of the calm, had come on board the Terrible to visit Captain Penrose and his officers. They were a merry party; they had done their duty nobly, and they were anticipating opportunities of doing it again, not to speak of gaining prize-money and promotion.

“Walsingham, my dear fellow,” said Captain Penrose to his younger brother Captain as they were taking a turn on the quarterdeck after dinner, “I do not altogether like the look of the weather. I have, as you know, been in these seas a good deal. These perfect calms are often succeeded by sudden and violent storms, often by hurricanes; and though we may have sea-room and stout craft, in such a commotion as I have more than once witnessed, it will require all our seamanship to keep afloat.”

“No fear,” answered the younger Captain, smiling, “the Thunderer is not likely to fear the fiercest hurricane that ever blew;” and he looked with all a true seaman’s pride on the noble ship, which floated so gallantly at the distance of a few hundred fathoms.

“At all events, take an old man’s counsel,” said Captain Penrose, stopping in his walk. “I would not be so rude as unnecessarily to urge you to leave my ship; but, my dear fellow, get on board as fast as you can, and make her ready to encounter whatever may occur. If the threatenings pass off, no harm is done. I must prepare the Terrible for a gale.”

Thus urged, the younger Captain could no longer decline to take the proffered advice, but calling his officers, their boats were manned, and they returned on board the Thunderer. In the meantime, everything that could be done was done to prepare the Terrible for a fierce contest with the elements. Royal and topgallant-yards were sent down—topmasts were struck, rolling tackles were made fast to all the lower yards, and all the guns, and everything below that could move, were secured. A thin mist pervaded the atmosphere; the heat grew excessive; both sky and sea became the colour of lead; and an oppressive gloom hung over the waste of waters. Still the wind did not stir, and even the swell appeared to be going down. Hour after hour passed away.

“Our skipper is a good officer, there’s no doubt about it,” observed some of the younger men as they walked the forecastle. “But he’s sometimes overmuch on the safe side, and if a moderate breeze were to spring up, and an enemy appear in sight, she’d slip away long before we could be in a fit state to go after her.”

“You are very wise, mate, I daresay,” said Abel Bush, who heard the remark. “But just suppose the Captain is right and you wrong, how should we look if the squall caught us with all our light sticks aloft and our canvas spread? Old Harry Cane, when you meet with him in these parts, is not a chap to be trifled with, let me tell you.”

The younger seaman might have replied, but the force of Abel’s argument was considerably strengthened by a loud roaring sound which broke on their ears. Far, too, as the eye could reach, the ocean appeared torn up into a vast mass of foam, which rolled on with fearful rapidity, preceded by still higher undulations than before, which made the ship roll, and pitch, and tumble about in a way most unusual and alarming. The officers, speaking trumpet in hand, were issuing the necessary orders to try and get the ship’s head away from the coming blast; but the little wind there yet was refused to fill the head sails, and only made them beat and flap against the masts.

“I told you so, mates,” said Abel Bush as he passed Ned Marline, the young seaman who had been criticising the Captain’s arrangements; “never do you fancy that you know better than your elders till you’ve had as much experience as they.”

Paul Pringle had been watching the Thunderer. He had served on board her; he had many old shipmates now belonging to her; and he naturally took a deep interest in all concerning her.

“She’s a fine old ship, that she is!” he exclaimed as he cast a last glance at the gallant seventy-four, before turning to attend to his duty.

She was then not a quarter of a mile to leeward. Now down came the fury of the hurricane; with a roar like that of a wild beast when it springs on its prey, the tempest struck the Terrible. The headsails, which alone were set, in an instant were blown from the boltropes, and flew like fleecy clouds far away down to leeward. The helm was put up, but the ship refused to answer it. The tempest struck her on the side. The stout masts bent and quivered in spite of all the shrouds and stays which supported them, and then over she heeled, till the yardarms touched the seething ocean. Fore and aft she was covered with a mass of foam, while the waters rushed exultantly into her ports, threatening to carry her instantly to the bottom. The crew hurried to secure the ports. Many poor fellows were carried off while making the attempt. In vain Captain Penrose and his officers exerted themselves to wear the ship. Like a helpless log she lay on the foaming ocean. While still hoping to avoid the last extreme resource of cutting away the masts, the carpenter appeared on the quarterdeck with an expression of consternation on his countenance.

“What has happened below, Chips?” asked Captain Penrose.

“Twelve feet water in the hold, and rapidly gaining on us,” was the answer.

“It is probably the water which has got in through the ports; but man the pumps: we must get it out again as fast as we can,” answered the Captain.

“They’ll not work while the ship is in this position, sir,” said the carpenter.

“Oh, well, then, we must get her out of it!” cried Captain Penrose in a cheerful voice, though his heart was heavy. “All hands stand by to cut away the masts.”

The order was repeated from mouth to mouth, for no voice could have been heard along the deck. The carpenter once more went below to sound the well. He shortly returned with even a worse report than the first. The order was therefore given to cut away the masts. He sprang to his post at the mizen-mast, which was to go first; but, just as he was about to cut, the ship righted with a sudden jerk, which well-nigh sent everybody off his legs. All believed that the dreaded resource would not be required, but still the helm was useless, and therefore the ship could not be got before the wind. Not a minute had passed before she was once more struck on the opposite side with a still more furious blast of the hurricane. Over the big ship heeled to it, till first the foremast went by the head, carrying all the topmast rigging over the bows; the mainmast followed, going by the board, and the mizen-mast was quickly dragged after it, the falling masts wounding and killing many of the crew, and carrying several overboard. Not a moment, however, was lost, before, led by the officers, all were engaged with axes and knives in clearing the wreck. But now the seas leaped up furiously round the labouring ship, tossing her huge hull wildly here and there, as if she had been merely some small boat left helplessly to become their sport.

Now, for the first time, Paul Pringle and others bethought them of looking for the Thunderer. So full of salt spray was the air that they could scarcely make her out, near as she was to them; then on a sudden they saw her dark hull surrounded by the seething foam, but her stout masts were not visible. She, as they had been, was on her beam-ends. Suddenly she, too, righted; up rose the masts, in all their height and symmetry it seemed.

“She has come off scatheless!” cried one or two.

“No, no, mates!” cried Paul Pringle in a tone of anguish. “See! see! heaven have mercy on their souls!”

Down, down, sank the big hull; gradually tier after tier disappeared; the foaming waters leaped over the decks—the tall masts followed—down—down—down—and in another instant the spot where the brave old Thunderer had floated was vacant, and seven hundred human beings were hurried at once into eternity. In vain could the crew of the Terrible hope to render them assistance—the same fate at any moment might be theirs. No one had even time to mourn the loss of their countrymen and friends. Every nerve must be strained to keep their own ship afloat. Still the water rushed in.

The opinion became general that a butt had been started, (that is, the end of a plank), and that the ship must go down. Even Captain Penrose could no longer conceal from himself that such was too probably the case. He, however, and his officers exerted themselves to the utmost to maintain discipline—no easy task under such circumstances in those days, when men who had braved death over and over again in battle with the greatest coolness and intrepidity, have been known to break open the spirit stores with the object of stupefying their minds with liquor to avoid facing the king of terrors.

Fiercer and fiercer raged the hurricane, and now all hopes of saving the ship, or of preserving their own lives, were almost abandoned. Paul Pringle, with Abel Bush and Peter Ogle, were seen to be very busy. They were collecting such shattered spars and small ropes, and casks and other articles, as they could most easily lay hands on. These they quickly converted into a small but very strong raft, with a sort of bulwark all round it. In one of the casks they stowed a keg of water, and some biscuits and beef; and in another they stuffed the bedding of a hammock and some blankets; and they stepped a mast on the little raft, and secured a flag to it. The raft might, probably, have borne four or five men, but there was only sitting room for one just alongside the cask which had the bedding in it. When all was ready, Paul Pringle disappeared into the Captain’s cabin, and returned carrying in his arms Billy True Blue, followed by Sam Smatch, who had his fiddle and bow tucked under his arm.

“Now, Sam,” said Paul, pointing to the raft, “you see that. You didn’t enter to do a seaman’s duty; so you, if any one ought, may quit the ship. Now, you see, none on us knows what moment she may be going down; and so, Sam, just jump into this raft and make yourself fast, so that no sea can wash you off, and take Billy True Blue with you. Though he’s on the ship’s books, he isn’t entered to do duty; so he may quit her without any shame or disgrace, d’ye see. Bear a hand now, Sam.”

The black did as he was bid; and having secured his beloved fiddle in one of the casks, held out his arms to receive little True Blue. Paul for some instants could not bring himself to part with the child. He pressed his lips to its little mouth as a fond mother might do; and then Peter and Abel followed his example with no less signs of affection; but a cry which ascended from below, that the ship was settling down fast, hurried their proceedings.

“There, Sam, take him,” said Paul with a tone of deep feeling, giving up the child to the black. “Watch over him, Sam, for he’s a jewel, mind that. You may be driven ashore on that island out there, and as you know the lingo of the people, you may do bravely among them. Your fiddle will stand you in good stead wherever you go, and you may play them into good humour. But mind you, Sam, as soon as you can, you are to get to a British port, and to go aboard a man-of-war, and say who the boy is, and what he is, and how he’s to be brought up; and try and find out any old shipmates of mine, or Peter’s, or Abel’s, or the Captain’s—for I know he’ll join us—and say that it was our last dying message, just before the waters closed over us, that they would stand in our shoes and look after the boy. We trust you, Sam. You loves the boy. I knows you do. You’ll be faithful, lad?”

“Yes, Paul; so help me, I will,” answered Sam with much feeling, pressing his shipmate’s hand held out to him.

“Stay,” said Paul suddenly, “you shall not go alone, Sam. There’s another who loves little True Blue, and as he’s one of the youngest in the ship, no one will complain that he has a chance of his life given him. It’s Natty Garland. Has any one seen Natty Garland?”

The young midshipman was nowhere to be found. The Captain highly approved of Paul’s proposals, and men hurried off in every direction to look for the lad.

The Captain retired to his cabin to write a hasty despatch, describing the condition of his ship. He expected that it would be the last he should ever indite. “I will entrust this with the young boy,” he said to himself. “I am sure the explanations it will give will exonerate me for the loss of the ship.”

When he returned on deck, the midshipman had not been found. The Captain was about to give his despatch to Sam, when two men returned, bringing young Garland with them. They found him between two of the guns on the middle deck almost stunned from a fall. Had they not arrived when they did, he very likely would have been washed through a port and drowned. He soon recovered in the air, and was told what was proposed.

“To leave the ship while others stay?” he exclaimed. “No, no. I am an officer, and it is my duty to stick by the ship to the last.”

“Right, Garland,” said the Captain, taking his hand warmly. “But I do not propose that you should leave the ship till she will no longer float; and then I have to entrust you with a despatch, which you must deliver to the Admiral, and explain how the ship was lost.”

“I will obey your orders, sir,” cried the boy, bursting into tears; “but I would rather stick to the ship like the rest and go down in her, if go she must.”

“Maybe the ship won’t go down, though,” said Sam.

As Sam spoke, the fury of the hurricane seemed slightly to decrease. The Captain and officers again felt some hopes of saving the ship, by heaving overboard the upper deck guns which could be most easily got at. It was a desperate resource, as the ship would thus be left utterly helpless and a prey to the meanest enemy; still it was better than allowing her to go to the bottom. As she rolled, now one gun, now another, was cast loose, run out, and let slip through the ports. It was difficult work, for one gun slipping on board and getting loose might create the most desperate havoc and confusion. Several guns had been sent plunging into the ocean, when the Captain gave the order to hold fast. Suddenly, as the hurricane began, it ceased. The ship rolled and tumbled about as violently as ever, having no masts to steady her; but some minutes passed and she had not sunk lower in the water; her pumps were got to work steadily; all hands which could be spared were sent with buckets to the lower-deck to bale away; and though at first the impression they made did not appear on so large a bulk of water, it was soon evident they assisted the pumps in gaining on the leaks.

No one, with but one exception, was idle. Everybody was straining every nerve to keep the ship afloat, and to clear her of the wreck of her masts. The only exception was Sam Smatch. Not aware that the state of affairs had much improved, he sat, as ordered, on the raft, holding little True Blue, and expecting every moment to feel the ship sinking from under him.

Bravely and energetically the men laboured on. Once more the ship floated nearly at her usual level; but the continued clank of the pumps showed that it was only while they were kept going constantly that she would do so. The hurricane, with loud mutterings in the distance, died away, and the jury-masts being got up, a light wind from the eastward enabled a course to be steered for Jamaica. Paul had come and released Sam, and sent him with the child into the cabin.

“Gentlemen,” said the Captain to his officers assembled round him, “a merciful Providence has preserved our lives. Every man has done his duty; but let us not boast that it is owing to our own strength or exertions that our ship is still afloat. Our fate might have been that which I fear has overtaken the Thunderer. Alas! we shall have a sad account to give of her.” Captain Penrose surmised too truly what had happened. Neither the Thunderer nor a single man of her crew was ever heard of again.

Chapter Six.

The Terrible was with difficulty kept afloat while jury-masts were being got up, and sails were made to carry her to Jamaica. Never had her brave crew felt so unwilling to meet a foe; but, as Tom Snell, the boatswain’s mate, observed:

“What is sauce to the goose is sauce to the gander, d’ye see, mates; and the chances are that all ships afloat are likely to be pretty evenly tarred with the same brush.”

So it proved. The French suffered as severely as the English. Many vessels of each nation, both men-of-war and merchantmen, were cast away; in some cases the whole of the crew perishing, in others a few only escaping.

Little True Blue had, therefore, at a very early age, to encounter “the battle and the breeze.”

“He was just beginning to get the use of his sea-legs,” as Paul observed; and it was his great amusement and that of the boy’s other guardians, as well as of Sam Smatch, and occasionally of the other men, to teach him to employ them. They would sit on the deck in a circle, and, stretching out their arms, let him run about between them. First he began by merely crawling, and that he did at a very rapid rate; then he got up by degrees and worked his way along their legs, and in a week or two afterwards he could move about between them; but great was the delight of the honest Jacks when he discarded even this support, and toddled boldly from one to the other with a true nautical roll. What shouts of laughter—what applause was elicited at his performances! and Billy was almost smothered by their beards as they kissed him as a reward for his success. Even at this early age, Billy showed, as most children do, a strong inclination to have his own way; but, loving him heartily as they did, they had been too well disciplined themselves to allow him to have it, and no one kept him more strictly in order than did Paul Pringle himself.

Sam Smatch would have done his best to spoil him; but he got for his pains several severe pulls by the ears, boxes on the cheek, and kicks on the shins, so at last he fortunately was compelled to exert his authority and to report him to his head guardians. Billy was a noble little fellow; but he no more nearly approached perfection than does any child of Adam. Billy was destined to experience, before long, more of the ups and downs of a naval career.

It was on the 25th of August 1781, that the Terrible, forming one of Rear-Admiral Sir Samuel Hood’s squadron, arrived off the Chesapeake, and then proceeded to Sandy Hook, where they joined Rear-Admiral Graves, who, being senior officer, became commander-in-chief and sailed in quest of the enemy. Paul Pringle and the rest of the crew of the Terrible were eager once more to meet the foe.

“Here we’ve been a-cruising up and down these two years, and never once been able to get alongside them Frenchmen, to have a regular-built stand-up fight!” exclaimed Paul as he and Abel Bush and one or two others were stretching their legs on the forecastle.

“I should just like to show a Monsieur to Billy, and tell him all about them,” observed Abel. “We can’t begin too soon to teach him how he ought to feel for them. I knows well enough that we mustn’t make him hate them, because, d’ye see, they are our enemies; but we may show him how he must try and give them a sound drubbing whenever he can catch them, because that’s his duty to his country, and it’s good for them to pull down their pride, d’ye see.”

Abel’s opinion was loudly echoed by all his hearers. There soon appeared every probability of the wishes of the old Terribles being accomplished. Early on the morning of the 6th of September, the French fleet was discovered at anchor across the Chesapeake, extending in a long line from Cape Henry to the Middle Ground.

The British ships were cleared for action, and stood towards the enemy. When the French perceived them, they also got under weigh and stood to sea, their line being formed as the ships drew from under the land. It was a fine sight to see the two fleets thus approaching each other in battle array. The hearts of the British tars warmed at it—their courage rose.

“We must have Billy up and show it to him!” exclaimed Paul Pringle to Peter Ogle. “Here, boy, you just run below and tell Sam Smatch to come up with the child. The Monsieurs won’t begin to open fire yet, and it will do his heart good to see the sight—that it will.”

Sam in a short time appeared with Billy in his arms on the forecastle.

“You don’t want to keep a baby up here while de enemy is firing at us, Paul?” said Sam, with his teeth giving signs of an inclination to chatter.

“No fear, Sam,” answered Paul with a quizzical look at the black. “We’ll take care that no harm comes to you and the baby.”

He called him the baby; but little True Blue was now able to understand much that was said to him, while he could talk in a fashion of his own. Though his sentences were not very long, his friends understood well enough what he meant to say; and, judging by their shouts of laughter, it might be supposed that his remarks were witty in the extreme.

Paul now lifted him up in his arms, and pointed to the French fleet.

“See here, Billy,” said he, “look out there at the Monsieurs. You must learn to drub them some day, mind you, if we don’t do it just now. You knows what I mean?”

“Ay, ay,” answered Billy, doubling his little fists; “Billy fight en’y—fight Fen!”

The sentiment was received with the loudest applause by the crew. On the Captain inquiring what had occurred, “It’s little Billy True Blue, sir, standing up and a-swearin’ as how he’ll drub the Frenchmen,” was the answer.

Even Captain Penrose at such a moment, which must be awful to all thinking men when about to engage in deadly combat with an enemy, could not help smiling at the account, however much he might be inclined to doubt the correctness of the assertion.

“Let him get a little bigger before we try his metal,” he replied. “Take him below at once. We are nearing the enemy’s line, and shall soon have their shot come rattling aboard us.”

The day had drawn on before the two hostile fleets could approach each other; but the rear ships, from want of wind, were far astern when the Princessa, Shrewsbury, Intrepid, and Montague, leading, followed closely by the Terrible and Ajax, got into action and bore the whole fire of the van and centre of the French fleet. Right gallantly did the English tars stand to their guns; and seldom have they had more need of their boasted courage. Round-shot and chain-shot and langridge came showering thickly down upon them. The English line was to windward, and might easily have got out of the fight; but this the Captains disdained to do, though anxiously looking for the assistance of their friends. The wind more than once shifted, and each time that it did so, it enabled the French to bring more of their ships down on the English centre, especially on the Terrible. She looked like some noble monster brought to bay. Although with one opponent abeam, and two others on her bows, and another on her quarter, pouring their shot in upon her, not a man flinched from his gun. Numbers fell, killed or wounded, but their places were instantly supplied by their shipmates. Several guns were dismounted, but others were got over from the opposite side, and fought with the most determined spirit. The brave old Captain walked the quarterdeck as coolly as if no enemy was in sight, casting an eye aloft every now and then, to assure himself that the flag, which he had resolved should fly to the last, was still untouched.

Paul Pringle was one of the quartermasters at the helm. Several shipmates and friends had fallen around him. He saw the enemy’s shot striking the ship’s sides between wind and water, and he could not help feeling the very perilous position in which the old ship was placed. In spite, however, of the tumult, the death and havoc which raged around him, his thoughts turned anxiously towards his little charge down in the distant hold. “Well, if the Captain goes, and I go, and we all go who have charge of him, there is One above who will look after him and tend him better than we can,” he said more than once to himself. “Still I wish he were safe out of this. For myself, I’d as lief go down with my colours flying as strike them; but that would be hard for him, and yet the old ship seems very uneasy. Heaven watch over him and protect him!”

As Paul said this to himself, a shot came flying from the ship on the Terrible’s quarter. Suddenly Paul was torn from his hold of the wheel, and, with two other men, was seen struggling on the other side of the deck. Captain Penrose had at that moment faced aft and seen what had occurred.

“Paul Pringle gone!” he said sadly to himself. “A better seaman never died fighting for his country.”

Scarcely had the well-merited eulogium passed his lips, than, from among the mangled forms of his shipmates, and covered from head to foot with their still warm blood, up sprang Paul himself, and with a bound returned to the wheel, the spokes of which he grasped firmly, singing out with stentorian voice and a prolonged cadence, “Steady!” as he passed them rapidly round.

The man who had been ordered to take his place stopped when he saw him, with a look of amazement, uncertain whether it was his ghost or not.

“It’s myself, Jack,” said he; “but it was a near touch and go, and for some moments never did I expect to be on my legs again, let me tell you, lad.”

Still hotter and hotter grew the fight; but the firing sent down the little air that there had been, and it fell so that no more of the British ships could get up to the support of those engaged. Still the van and centre bravely supported the unequal fight. The carpenter came and reported to the Captain that he had sounded the well, and that the water was gaining rapidly on the ship.

“Man the pumps, then, Mr Chips, and try and clear her,” was the answer.

Some men were at once told off for that purpose, ill as they could be spared from the guns, and sent below.

Scarcely had they set to work when a shot came in, carrying off the heads of several of them; another shortly followed and destroyed the pumps. Mr Chips and the survivors, with some of his crew whom he collected, strenuously exerted themselves to repair the damage; but it was a long time before they could get the pumps to work.

All this time little Billy remained with Sam in the hold. Billy, it must be confessed, began to cry at the din and uproar, for he could not make out what it all meant; and the teeth of the poor black, who knew too well, began to chatter in right earnest, and his heart to quake. It was, in truth, a very trying time for Sam. He had a lantern with him, but it gave a very dim, uncertain light; and from the crashing just above his head, and the rushing sound close to his ear, he knew that the shots were finding their way in between wind and water, and that the latter element was gaining a rapid entrance into the ship. Every now and then the splinters, and occasionally also a shot, which fell through the hatchways, showed him that death was being dealt rapidly around just above him; and he dared not therefore move, as he wished to do, to the orlop-deck, into which the shot of an enemy does not often find its way. Then, again, the sound of the water washing about below his feet alarmed him. He began to anticipate the most dreadful of fates.

“De poor little Billy and I will be drowned down here in dis dark hole, and no one come to look for us. What me do? Oh dear! oh dear! Poor little Billy!”

Then he wrung his hands bitterly, while Billy stood between his knees, looking up inquiringly into his face, and wondering what made him so unhappy. Then Billy cried himself, not exactly knowing why. Then he stopped and endeavoured, as far as his knowledge of language would carry him, to ask Sam what was the matter.

“No ask, Billy—no ask,” answered Sam, shaking his head mournfully. “De old ship very ill—hear how she groan and cry!”

Indeed, the sounds which reached their ears were very appalling. The ship herself groaned and moaned as the water rushed through her, and the pent-up air made its escape, and the bulkheads creaked loudly, and then from above came the saddest shrieks and cries. They were from the cockpit, where the poor mangled fellows who had been brought below were placed under the hands of the surgeons. Besides all this, there was the unceasing roar and reverberation of the guns, shaking the ship’s sides as if they were about to fall to pieces; while there was the rattle of shot, and the crash and tearing of planks, and the rending asunder of stout timber.

In time Billy got accustomed to the sounds, and did not seem to connect them with any especial danger to himself and his friends. Not so poor Sam, who grew more and more alarmed, and not without reason; for although he was unable to ascertain how the battle itself might terminate, he saw too evidently that unless it was shortly brought to an end, and the crew were able to exert themselves in keeping her afloat, the ship would go down with all on board still fighting on her decks. Anxiously he waited. There seemed to be no cessation of firing. Then, taking Billy in his arms, he exclaimed, “Better be shot than stay and drown here!” and rushed frantically up the hatchway ladders.

“Down, Sam—down! Is the boy mad?” exclaimed several who saw him. “You’ll be having little Billy hit if you don’t take care, Sam.”

“No, Sam not mad; but de ship is sinking!” he cried out. “De ship is sinking, I say!”

These sounds very soon reached the ears of the Captain.

“Then we’ll sink with her, my boys!” he exclaimed; “for strike that glorious flag of ours while I’m alive, I will not. Fight to the last, my lads, say I; and let us show the boasting Frenchmen what they are to expect from every ship they attack before they can hope to take her.”

The officers and men who stood near echoed the sentiment, and from gun to gun along the decks it flew, till the whole ship’s company broke forth into one loud enthusiastic cheer.

Probably the Frenchmen heard it; but they continued firing with effect, till suddenly their helms were put up, and, their rigging being in far better condition than that of the English, away they stood before the wind towards the mouth of the Chesapeake; and as the shades of night were rapidly closing down on the world of waters, they were soon hid from sight. The English seamen, as they receded into obscurity, looked at the enemy with hatred and contempt. Forbidden by the Admiral to follow, and in truth unable to do so, they felt like chained mastiffs bearded in their kennels by a pack of yelping hounds, who have carried off their bones and pretty severely handled them at the same time. It must be confessed, indeed, that although the French could not claim a victory, they decidedly had the best of it in the fight, their ships having suffered much less than those of the English.

The Count de Grasse, in the Ville de Paris, commanded, and he gained his object of landing a body of troops to assist the Americans, which contributed so much to their success over Lord Cornwallis.

Once more the British ships were left alone, the enemy having, to all appearance, vanished into thin air. The reports brought from time to time to Captain Penrose were truly disheartening. With many men killed, and still greater numbers wounded, and the rest pretty well knocked up with their exertions, it was difficult work to keep the pumps going, by which alone the ship could be saved from going down. There was to be no slumber or rest for any one during all that night; and the Captain and officers could only feel thankful that a gale did not spring up, or that the enemy did not come out and have a brush with them.

When morning broke, the signal for the fleet to get more to windward and to repair damages was flying at the masthead of the flagship. The order was obeyed, and all the day was spent in plugging shot-holes, and in bending new sails or mending rent ones, and in reeving fresh running rigging. Captain Penrose, with an excusable feeling, could not bring himself to reveal the condition of the old Terrible to the Admiral.

“If we must go down, let us first get alongside the enemy, and then, yardarm to yardarm, let us both go down together, or carry her by boarding, and win a new ship for ourselves!” he exclaimed while talking the matter over with his officers.

The idea was approved of by all of them, and they all expressed a hope that the opportunity might be allowed them of carrying it into execution. As was intended, it was repeated to the men, and soon passed along the decks, all joining heartily in the wish that, they might thus have the chance of punishing the enemy.

“But what is to be done with little Billy True Blue?” inquired Sam Smatch. “He can’t board with the rest, I guess.”

“No, Sam; but we will have a bodyguard for him,” observed Peter Ogle. “When Paul Pringle comes for’ard, we’ll ax him what he says to it. When we board and drive the Frenchmen before us, the bodyguard, with Billy in the middle, must follow closely after; and then, d’ye see, we shall win a prize, take care of Billy, and lick the Frenchmen all under one.”

When Paul Pringle heard of the plan, he highly approved of it, at the same time that he put the question, “Who’s to take care of Billy, mates, and form this same bodyguard you speak of?”

Now, of course, everybody would wish to do the fighting part, and to be among the first on board the enemy’s ship. Who would form the bodyguard? That was a poser. Of course Sam Smatch would be one; but then by himself he would not be of much use, as his wooden leg might chance to stick in a hole and stop his progress. At last they agreed to refer the matter to the Captain, and to get him to tell off a body of men for that purpose.

Paul Pringle was selected to be the bearer of the message. Hat in hand, he stood before his Captain.

“What is it, Pringle?” asked the old man.

“Why, sir, please you, I be come about the business of the ship’s child, sir, Billy True Blue,” began Paul. “We hear as how we are to get alongside an enemy and to take her, and we’ve been thinking how we are to get little Billy safe aboard if the Terrible, bless her old ribs! was for to take it into her head to go down; and we thinks as how if he was to have a bodyguard, whose business was to keep round him and look after him, seeing as how Sam Smatch can’t do that same by himself, that it would be the best thing for the youngster we can arrange.”

Much more to the same effect Paul explained; and the Captain finally promised that if there was a chance of getting alongside an enemy, he would appoint some men to the duty.

“And what is more, I will place the party under command of Mr Garland,” said the Captain. “Billy is such a pet with him, that I am sure he will do his best to defend him.”

“That I know he will, sir!” exclaimed Paul. “That will just do, sir. None on ’em will fight the worse for knowing how kind you’ve been to us—that they won’t;” and honest Paul scraped his way out of the cabin.

The enemy, however, showed no inclination to give them the chance they wished for. Although Admiral Graves kept his fleet sailing up and down in front of them, they continued to leeward, without any attempt to approach. The Count de Grasse was more intent on carrying out his immediate object of effecting the safe debarkation of the troops than in sustaining the honour of his nation. He was a wise man, for by risking an action he might have been defeated and lost the attainment of both objects.

In spite of the battered condition of the Terrible, she maintained her position in the line; but she was only kept afloat by the most strenuous and unremitting exertions of her brave crew. Another night and day passed, and each hour the difficulty of keeping her afloat became more apparent. Her masts and spars, too, were much wounded, and it became a question how she would be able to weather even a moderate gale. Still the ship’s company worked on cheerfully, in hopes that they might have the chance of gaining a ship for themselves. At length the wind fell very light, and the Admiral, ordering the fleet to lay to, sent an officer on board each ship which had been engaged, to inquire into her condition and the state of the wounded. It was a trying time when the Captain of the flagship himself came on board the Terrible. Half the men were lying about between the guns, overcome with fatigue, while the remainder were working away at the pumps in a way which showed that they knew their lives depended on their exertions. He examined the ship below, and when he went on deck he cast his eye on the masts and spars. He then took Captain Penrose aside, and, after talking with him, went back to the flagship. He soon returned, and a few more words passed between him and the Captain.

Captain Penrose then appeared on the quarterdeck with a sorrowful countenance.

“Gentlemen,” said he with a voice almost choked with emotion, turning to his officers, “and you, my gallant fellows, who have served with me so long and so faithfully, I have sad news to tell you. It is the opinion of those competent to judge, that we cannot hope to keep the old ship afloat much longer. If we could put her on shore, we might save her to carry us yet longer through the ‘battle and the breeze;’ but we have only a hostile shore under our lee, with an enemy’s fleet in sight, far superior to ours, and which has lately been reinforced by five ships-of-the-line; and therefore, my friends, it has been decided that we must abandon and destroy her.”

The old man could scarcely speak for some minutes, while a general groan ran through the ship’s company. Paul Pringle turned his eyes towards the distant fleet of the enemy, and thought, “But why can’t we get alongside some of them Monsieurs and take a ship for ourselves? We’d do it—we knows we could, if the Captain would give the word.”

The men were mistaken; but the expressions to which they gave vent showed the spirit which animated them.

“Now, my lads,” continued the Captain, “the boats of the squadron will soon be alongside. Each man will have ready his bag and hammock; the officers their clothes, nautical instruments, and desks. One thing I promise you,—and that’s a satisfaction to all, I know, boys, as it is to me,—that, come what may, our stout old ship, which has carried us so long through the tempest and the fight, will never fall into the hands of our enemies.”

The last remark was received with a loud shout, which seemed, as it was intended to do, to relieve the spirits of the men.

“Well, lads,” the Captain went on, “I wish that I had nothing more painful to say; but another bad part of the business is, that I must be separated from the larger number of you who have served with me so bravely and faithfully. I am appointed to the Fame, whose Captain has been badly wounded, and will go home; and I may take with me one hundred and ten men—the rest will be distributed among the ships of the fleet short of their complement. The first lieutenant will call over the names of those selected to go with me; but, lads,—my dear lads, who are to be parted from me,—don’t suppose that I would not gladly have you also—ay, every one of you; and wherever you go, you will, I am sure, prove a credit to the ship you have served in, and the Captain you have served under.”

The Captain could not go on, and many a rough seaman passed the collar of his jacket across his eyes; and then, led by Tom Snell, they gave three thundering cheers for the Captain and officers of the dear old ship they were going to leave for ever.

In a short time the boats of the squadron came alongside. The intermediate period had been spent in getting their bags and bedding ready, and now all stood prepared for the word to step into the boats. Of course the Captain had chosen Paul Pringle; so he had Abel Bush, and Peter Ogle, and Tom Snell, and the other assistant-guardians of little Billy, while Sergeant Bolton with some of his marines were drafted into his new ship, and Sam Smatch was thrown in to the bargain.

Captain Penrose had chosen Natty Garland to be among the officers to accompany him. He had called him up before the ship was abandoned.

“Most of your messmates and friends are appointed to other ships, Garland,” he said; “I can probably get you a berth on board nearly any you may like to name, or, if you like to follow your old Captain’s fortunes, I will take you with me.”

“Oh, sir, I will go with you without a moment’s doubt!” answered the young midshipman warmly. “I am sure, wherever you are, I shall find the right sort of work to be done.”

“I trust you may, my lad,” answered the old man, smiling and putting out his hand. From that time he became a greater friend than ever of the brave boy.

The Fame now bore down to receive her new Captain and the addition to her ship’s company. Three of the Terrible’s officers accompanied their Captain; the rest were distributed among the vacancies in the fleet. There floated the old Terrible, with her well-riddled and torn sails furled, but her pendant, and ensign, and Union-Jack still flying at her peak and mastheads. She was deserted. The lieutenants, with the master-at-arms and the quartermasters, had gone round her decks to assure themselves that no human being remained in her. The shot, too, had been withdrawn from all the guns; and such things belonging to her as could be more easily removed had been carried away. Now the four lieutenants in as many boats returned. Accompanied by picked men, they went to different parts of the ship. As they walked along her silent decks, the groans and sighs which rose from below made their hearts feel sad. They descended to different parts of the hold, and, each collecting such combustible materials as they could find, set fire to them and hastily retreated. Once more they returned to the boats and pulled away for the Fame. Night was coming rapidly on. Scarcely had they reached the deck of the Fame before flames burst forth from every part of the Terrible, Brighter and fiercer they grew. Now they found their way through the hatchways and climbed up the masts and rigging; they twisted and turned along the bowsprit and out to the taffrail. Still by their glare could be seen the victorious flag of England waving proudly in the breeze.

Now, fore and aft, the old Terrible was one mass of flame,—a huge pyramid of fire,—which shed a lurid glare on the clouds above, on the surrounding water, and on the white sails and dark hulls of the ships. Suddenly there was a concussion which shook the very atmosphere, and made the ships roll and shiver as if struck with an ague. Now up in one mass of fire rose the upper deck, and masts, and spars, high into the air, where for an instant they hung suspended, and then, bursting into millions of burning fragments, down they came, scattered far and wide, hissing into the ocean. Here and there, for a few minutes, some shining flames could be seen scattered about; but they quickly disappeared, the hull itself sank, and now but a very few charred fragments remained of the fine old Terrible. A groan burst from the bosoms of the gallant tars who had lately manned her, joined in equally by her Captain; and Billy True Blue, breaking into a flood of tears, was carried still inconsolable to his hammock.

Chapter Seven.

Sir George Rodney remained, from ill health, for some time in England, and the British squadrons on the West India and American stations were engaged chiefly during that time in guarding the Island of Jamaica from the contemplated attacks of the French. Captain Penrose soon taught his new ship’s company to love and trust him as much as the old one had done. The Fame was constantly and actively engaged, and he took good care, as usual, that the weeds should not grow under her bottom.

Billy True Blue was all this time rapidly growing in size and strength, and in knowledge of affairs in general.

Time passed on. Sir George Rodney returned from England and took command of the West India fleet. The French still intended to take Jamaica, but had not, and he resolved, if some thousand brave British sailors in stout ships could prevent them, that they should not. With this object in view, he assembled all his ships at the Island of Saint Lucia, where, having provisioned and watered them, he lay ready to attack the Count de Grasse as soon as he, with his fleet, should venture forth from Fort Royal Bay, where they had been refitting.

Paul Pringle and his shipmates were as eager as ever for the battle.

“I do wish little True Blue was big enough to join in the fight—that I do, even if it were only as a powder-monkey. He’d take to it so kindly—that he would, I know,” said Peter Ogle to Paul.

“I’ve no doubt about that, Peter,” answered his shipmate. “But we’ll wait a bit. He’ll be big enough by and by, and we mustn’t let him run any risk yet. We’ll send him down below, as we used to do in the old Terrible, with Sam Smatch. Sam will have more difficulty in keeping him quiet than he had then.”

“But I wonder when we shall get at these Frenchmen?” said Abel Bush. “They seem to me just as slippery as eels. When you think you’ve got them, there they are gliding past your nose, and safe and sound at anchor under their batteries, or in some snug harbour where you can’t get at them. Well, Paul, night and morning, I do thank heaven that I wasn’t born a Frenchman—that I do.”

“Right, Abel; so do I,” said Paul. “Ah, here comes little True Blue. Now, I’ll warrant, about the whole French fleet they haven’t got such a youngster as he is—no, nor nothing like him.”

“Like him! I should think not!” cried Peter Ogle in a tone of voice which showed that the very supposition made him indignant. “No more like him than a frog is like an albatross. No, no; search the world round, I don’t care in what country, ashore or afloat, black, or brown, or white, you won’t find such another little chap for his age as Billy True Blue.”

The child, as he walked along the deck with a slight roll, which he had learned as soon as he put his feet to the planks, seemed well deserving of the eulogium passed on him. He was a noble child, with a broad chest and shoulders, a fair complexion, though somewhat bronzed already, and a large, laughing blue eye, with a good honest, wide mouth, and teeth which showed that he could give a good account of the beef and biscuit which he put into it.

“Sam says I no big enough to fight de French,” said Billy, pouting his lips, as he came up to his old friends, followed closely by the black. “I put match to gun—fire—bang. Why no I fight?”

“Huzza, Billy!” cried Peter Ogle. “That’s the spirit. You’d stand to your gun as well as the best of us, I know you would. But we can’t let you just yet, boy. Make haste and grow big, and then if there are any Frenchmen left to fight, with any ships to fight in, you shall fight them, boy.”

This promise did not seem at all to satisfy Billy. He evidently understood that the ship was likely to go into action; and though it was a long time since he had been sent into the hold with Sam, he had a dim recollection of the horrors of the place, and fancied that he would much rather be with his friends on deck. Of course Sam was ordered to take charge of the little boy, as before.

The British had not long to wait for the expected meeting with the enemy. At daylight on the 8th of April 1782, the Andromache frigate, commanded by Captain Byron, appeared off Gros Islet Bay, with the signal flying that the enemy’s fleet, with a large convoy, was coming out of Fort Royal Bay and standing to the north-west. Instantly Sir George Rodney made the signal to weigh, and by noon the whole fleet was clear of the bay. The Admiral stretched over to Fort Royal, but finding none of the French ships there, or at Saint Pierre’s, he made the signal for a general chase. Night came on, but still a sharp lookout was kept ahead.

Paul Pringle and Abel Bush walked the forecastle, where the second lieutenant of the ship was stationed with his night-glass. The Fame was one of the leading ships. It was the middle watch. Paul put his hand on Abel’s shoulder. “Look out now there, mate; what do you see now?”

“Ten, fifteen, twenty lights at least. Huzza! That’s the enemy’s fleet. We shall be up to them in the morning.”

The lieutenant was of the same opinion, and went to make his report to the Captain. The men now clustered thickly on the forecastle to watch the Jack o’ Lantern-looking lights, which they hoped proceeded from the ships with which they expected in the morning to contend. As the mists of night cleared away on the morning of the 9th, the French were discovered in the passage between Dominique and Guadaloupe. A signal was seen flying, too, at the masthead of Sir George Rodney’s ship, to prepare for battle and to form the line. The French convoy was made out under Dominique, but the ships of war appeared forming their line to windward and standing over to Guadaloupe.

Unfortunately, however, the British fleet got becalmed for some time under the high lands of Dominique, and unable to get into their stations. The instant, however, that the welcome breeze at length reached the van division under Sir Samuel Hood, he stood in in gallant style and closed with the enemy’s centre. By noon the action had commenced in earnest, and was maintained by this division alone for upwards of an hour without any support from the rest of the squadron, the gallant Barfleur being for most of the time hotly engaged with three ships firing their broadsides at her. At length the leading ships of the centre got the breeze, and were able to come to the support of the van. Many of the French ships even fought well and gallantly, but, in spite of their superiority in numbers, were very roughly handled. In consequence of this, when the Count de Grasse saw the rear of the British fleet coming fast up, having the weather-gage, he hauled his wind and withdrew out of shot. Two of the French ships were, however, so much cut up in hull and rigging that they were compelled to leave the fleet and put into Guadaloupe.

Nothing could exceed the disappointment and rage of the British seamen at this proceeding. They had made sure of victory, and now to have the enemy run away and leave them in the lurch was provoking beyond all bearing.

Several British ships had suffered—the Royal and the Montague, and the Alfred especially, Captain Bayne, who commanded her, being killed. Still the crews entreated that they might not be sent into port, and, with the true spirit of British seamen, undertook to repair damages at sea, in which request they were seconded by their officers. For two days they were at work without cessation, making sail, however, whenever they could, and beating to windward in the direction the French fleet had gone.

The enemy were carrying all the sail they could press on their ships; and by the evening of the 10th they had weathered the Saintes, a group of rocks and islets between Dominique and Guadaloupe, and were nearly hull down.

Towards noon of next day the officers were seen to have their glasses more frequently and intently fixed on them; and by degrees, while the main body grew less and less distinct in the blue haze of the tropics, two ships, with their topmasts down, were perceived standing out in bold relief, and therefore known to be considerably to leeward of the rest, and much nearer the British. The breeze since the morning had been increasing to a fresh and steady gale.

With unbounded satisfaction the seamen saw the signal thrown out from the flagship for a general chase. The gallant Agamemnon, now beginning to earn her well-merited renown, with the noble Fame, and other ships forming Admiral Drake’s division, were ahead of the rest of the fleet. Crowding all sail with eager haste, they dashed on to secure their hoped-for prey. They saw the disabled Frenchmen making signals, calling their countrymen to their relief.

It was a period of intense anxiety; for the doubt was whether the Count de Grasse would abandon his ships to their fate or bear down to their relief, and thus lessen the distance between the enemy and himself. Eagerly they were watched. There remained no doubt that the English would cut off the two disabled Frenchmen, when gradually the bows of the distant ships of the enemy were seen to come round, and the Count de Grasse, adopting the nobler course, came bearing down under a press of sail to attempt the rescue of his friends.

“Now, gentlemen, we shall have them!” exclaimed Captain Penrose in a cheerful voice as he walked the quarterdeck with some of his officers. “Before this time to-morrow we shall have fought an action which will, I trust, be for ever celebrated in the annals of English history.”

Down came the Frenchmen in gallant style, faster than they expected; and the more experienced saw, from the scattered positions of the British ships, that the result of an action at that moment would have been very doubtful. Intense, however, was the disappointment of the greater number, when, towards evening, the leading ships of the two fleets being not a mile apart, they saw the signal of recall made.

Captain Penrose smiled at the impatience of his officers and men.

“I know Rodney pretty well by this time,” he remarked. “He is as eager for the fight as any of us, but he is no less anxious for the victory, and knows that will best be obtained by forming a compact line. See! what do those signals he is now making mean?”

“To form the line of battle,” answered the signal-officer.

“All right, master. Place us as soon as possible in our proper position,” said the Captain. “What’s that signal now?”

“Ships to work to windward under all sail,” was the answer.

It soon became too dark to make out any further signals, so the fleet continued, as last directed, to beat up in the direction of the enemy all night. When dawn broke on the 12th, a French ship of the line was discovered in a disabled condition, towed by a frigate, a considerable distance to leeward of the main body of the French fleet.

Directly a signal could be seen, Admiral Rodney made one for the four leading ships of the fleet to chase, in order to capture the two Frenchmen. It was the same drama enacted as on the previous day. It would have been a stain on the white lilies of France had the Count de Grasse allowed his two ships to be captured; and therefore, once more, to the great delight of the British, he bore up with his whole fleet for their protection.

There seemed no longer a possibility of a general action being avoided. The signal was made, ordering the British ships to their stations, and a close line ahead was formed on the starboard tack, the enemy being on the larboard. Rear-Admiral Drake, in the Princessa, 70 guns, commanded the Blue Division; the van, which was led by the noble Marlborough, followed closely by the Arrogant, Conqueror, Fame, Russell, Norwich, and other ships, which, with their brave Captains, were destined to become famous in story.

At half-past seven in the morning, Rear-Admiral Drake’s division, which led, got within range of the long-sought-for enemy, and soon from van to rear the British ships were sending forth their terrific broadsides. The French replied boldly; and now the two hostile fleets were wrapped in flames and smoke, while round-shot and missiles of all descriptions were passing between one and the other. Both appeared to be suffering alike, and many a brave seaman was laid low. The Fame had got early into action, and gallantly taken up her position opposite an opponent worthy of her. Her brave old Captain walked the quarterdeck, calm as usual, watching with eagle eye the progress of the engagement, and waiting for any opportunity to alter to advantage the position of his ship.

It was just such a fight as Paul Pringle and the crew generally had long wished for; and fierce and bloody enough it was, too. Of course little Billy was down below, as secure from harm as his friends could make him. Few of those present had ever been in a hotter or better contested fight. The officers, at all events, knew how much depended on the result—the safety, probably, of all the British possessions in the West Indies. All the seamen thought of was, how they best could thrash the Frenchmen; and they knew that all they had to do was to stick to their guns and blaze away till they were ordered to stop. Towards noon the wind shifted, and enabled the British fleet to fetch to windward of the enemy.

“See what that gallant fellow Gardner is about with the Duke,” observed Captain Penrose to the master, who was near him.

Putting the Duke’s helm up, he was standing down under all sail in a bold attempt to break the enemy’s line. There was a groan of disappointment given by all who saw him when his maintopmast fell over his side, and, unable to keep his position, he dropped to leeward.

Sir George Rodney in the Formidable, however, supported by the Namur and Canada, was more successful. Keeping up a terrific fire, he dashed through the French line about three ships off from the Ville de Paris, followed by all those in his rear; then, immediately wearing, he doubled on the enemy again, pouring in on them his crashing broadsides. By this bold manoeuvre the French line was broken and thrown into the utmost confusion: their van bore away and endeavoured to reform to leeward; but, too hotly pressed by the British ships, there seemed little probability of their accomplishing this.

Still the Frenchmen, though evidently losing the day, fought with the most desperate courage and resolution. For a short time, while still the battle was raging between many ships, the crew of the Fame ceased firing; for one opponent had sheered off whom they were unable to follow, and another was approaching. Whether the cessation of the roar of the guns made Sam Smatch careless, is uncertain; but just as a ninety-gun ship was bearing down on the gallant Fame, who should appear on the quarterdeck but little Billy True Blue! At that moment the Frenchmen let fly a crashing broadside, speedily returned by the crew of the Fame. Round-shot and bullets were flying about like hail, blocks and yards and splinters were rattling down from aloft, and blood and brains and mangled limbs were being scattered here and there. Unharmed and undaunted, the little fellow stood amid the wild uproar and the havoc and destruction and the scenes of horror taking place on every side.

The Captain at length turned round and saw the child standing near him.

“Oh, go below, boy! go below! You may be hurt, my child!” he exclaimed in a voice of the deepest concern. He turned to young Garland, who was near him, repeating, “Take him below instantly out of harm’s way.”

Billy had never disobeyed the Captain’s commands before; but he struggled violently in the midshipman’s arms and cried out, “No, no! Billy stay on deck and fight French!”

The fine old Captain was raising his hand as a sign that he must be obeyed, when he was seen to stagger. Nat Garland let go the child and ran to catch him; but before he could get up, he had sunk on the deck, just raising himself on one arm; but that slowly gave way, and he lay still on the deck.

Billy True Blue flew up to him with a cry of grief.

“Oh, Captain, Captain, what is the matter?” he exclaimed. Young Garland and those who stood near with deep grief thought that their gallant chief was dead.

“Captain, Captain, do speak—tell Billy what is the matter?” said the child.

At length the old man opened his eyes and smiled as he saw that innocent infantine face looking down upon him.

“Alfred—Edgar,” he whispered slowly. “Yes, dears, I know you; but I am going—going to another world of peace and quiet, where we shall all meet. I have had a rough life away from you; but duty, dears, duty kept me from home—always follow duty wherever it leads.”

Billy could not make out what the Captain was talking about, and others thought that he was speaking to him. In a little time he came more to himself, and they were about to take him below, but he insisted on being left on deck.

“I am shot through and through,” he said. “I will breathe the open air and see how the fight goes as long as I live. But take that little boy below out of danger.”

Soon after he had spoken, he again became partly delirious, and Billy shrieked and struggled so violently that the midshipman, who had a fellow-feeling for him, again set him down, and he ran back to his dying friend.

Captain Penrose now cried out for something to drink; but when it was brought, he would take it from no hands but those of Billy. Unconscious or regardless of the danger which surrounded him, the child sat himself down composedly on the deck, and continued to moisten the lips of the old man. Now a loud, true British hurrah ran along the decks of the Fame. Another English ship was coming up, and the crew of their opponent, unwilling to encounter the fire of a fresh antagonist, were hauling down her colours. The Captain raised himself up on one arm, and his eye fell on the white flag of France coming down from the masthead of the enemy.

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” he feebly exclaimed.

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” shouted Billy in a shrill tone, waving his little hat. Then the fine old seaman fell back, and when they got up to him he had ceased to breathe.

Hitherto Sir Samuel Hood’s division had been becalmed, but now getting the breeze, it came up in gallant style to take part in the action. Still many of the French crews fought on with the most heroic bravery. The Glorieux especially, commanded by the Vicomte D’Escar, made a most noble defence. Her masts and bowsprits were shot away by the board, but her colours were not struck till all her consorts were taken or put to flight. Her brave commander fell in the action. Monsieur de Marigny in the Caesar displayed equal bravery. Having sustained the fire of several ships, he was, when almost a wreck, closely and vigorously attacked by the Centaur. His colours, it appeared, were nailed to the mast; and though his men were falling thickly around him, and he himself mortally wounded, he would not yield.

At length, several other British ships coming up, one of the French officers cried out that the ship had surrendered, and at that moment her brave Captain was said to have breathed his last. No sooner did the Caesar surrender than her masts fell over the side. The Ardent, which was in the midst of the British fleet, struck to the Belliqueux, an English ship with a French name, and the Hector, 74, to the Canada, 74, commanded by Captain Cornwallis. He, however, left his prize to be taken possession of by the Alcide, and made sail after the French Admiral in the Ville de Paris, who, with his seconds, was endeavouring to rejoin his scattered and flying ships.

Boldly the brave Cornwallis approached the huge Ville de Paris, and right gallantly opened his fire; and so ably did he hang on her, and cut up her sails and rigging, some other ships coming up to his support, that it was impossible for her to escape. Still the Comte de Grasse, although his fine ship was almost cut to pieces and multitudes of her crew killed, seemed determined rather to sink than to yield to any ship under that of an Admiral’s flag. At length Sir Samuel Hood came up in the Barfleur, and poured in a tremendous broadside. Even then the gallant Frenchman held out, firing away from both sides of his ship on his numerous opponents for a quarter of an hour longer; when at length, seeing that all his own ships had deserted him, and that night was coming on, just as the sun set he hauled down his flag.

The enemy’s fleet continued going off before the wind in small detached squadrons and single ships under all the sail they could crowd, closely pursued by the British ships, which were consequently much dispersed.

Sir George Rodney, on seeing this, made the signal to bring to, in order to collect his fleet and secure the prizes. The signal was seen from many of the ships, and obeyed; but Commodore Affleck, in the Bedford, with other ships which were ahead, not observing it, continued the chase, keeping up a hot fire on the flying enemy.

“Well, mates!” exclaimed Paul Pringle, as that evening, with little Billy on his knee, he sat at the mess-table between the guns which had been so well served, and had served their country so well, “we’ve had a great loss, for we have lost as brave a captain, and as true a man, as ever stepped aboard of a man-of-war; yet, mates, he died as he would have wished, in the hour of victory; and then, just think on’t, we’ve had as glorious a day as I’d ever wish to see. Maybe few of us will ever live to see another such. But, mates, there’s another thing we have to be grateful for—that is, that our little Billy here has escaped the Frenchmen’s shot. What should we have done if he had been killed? It would have broken my heart, I know.”

“Grappled with the first Frenchman we could have met, and blown her and ourselves up together—that’s what I’d have been inclined to do!” cried Tom Snell, who was generally an advocate for desperate measures. “But how was it the little fellow got away from Sam? How was it, Billy?”

“I ran up, and leave Sam down dere,” answered Billy.

“Has anybody seen Sam since then?” asked Abel Bush.

On comparing notes, it was discovered that no one had seen the black since the commencement of the battle. It was agreed, therefore, that instant search should be made for him. Paul having procured a lantern from the master-at-arms, the messmates went below with Billy. They reached the spot where the child said he had left him, but no Sam was there. They shouted his name through the hold, but no reply was made. They hunted about in every direction.

“He must have gone on deck and stowed himself away somewhere,” observed Paul Pringle.

Just then Abel Bush said he heard a groan. Going towards the spot, there, coiled up, not far from one of the hatchways, was poor Sam. After calling to him several times and shaking him, he lifted up his head.

“Who dere? Oh dear, oh dear! What de matter?” he moaned out.

“How was it you let little Billy True Blue run away and nearly get killed, Sam?” asked Paul.

“Billy killed! Oh dear, oh dear! Den kill me!” cried poor Sam, trembling all over.

“But he isn’t killed, and we don’t want to kill you,” answered Paul. “Get up, though, or we shall fancy you’re in a fright or drunk.”

“But I can’t get up—’deed I can’t!” cried Sam. “Leg shot away. I no walkee.”

On hearing this, Paul and his companions lifted up the poor black, and sure enough a leg, but it was his wooden one, was shattered to fragments, and the stump to which it was secured considerably bruised. It then came out that Sam had really attempted to follow little True Blue when he ran on deck, but that, just as he was getting up the hatchway on the lower-deck, a shot had come through a port, and, striking his wooden leg, had tumbled him down again, when by some means or other he had rolled down into the hold, and there, suffering from pain and fear, he had ever since lain, unwilling and unable to rise, dreading lest harm should happen to his little charge, and fearing not a little, should such have been the case, the consequences to himself. He was half starved, too, for he had had nothing to eat all day, and was altogether in a very wretched plight. When, however, he was brought on deck, with some food put into his inside and the assistance of the carpenter, he was once more set on his legs. Many a day, however, passed before the sound of his once merry fiddle was heard on the forecastle of the Fame, for the crew loved their gallant commander too well to allow them to foot it as had been their constant custom during his lifetime.

Little rest had the crews of any of the ships that night after the battle. Not far from the Fame lay the Caesar, which had been so gallantly defended, now a prize to the Centaur. One of the lieutenants of the Centaur, with the boatswain and fifty of her men, were on board the prize, fully four hundred Frenchmen not having yet been removed.

Suddenly flames were seen to burst forth from the lower ports of the Caesar. How the fire originated no one could tell. In vain must have been the efforts of those on board to extinguish it. Boats put off from all the ships near to rescue the unfortunate people on board; but before they could reach her the fire had entered her magazine, and with a dreadful explosion she blew up, hurling every one on board to destruction. The English lieutenant and boatswain, with fifty men, and the four hundred Frenchmen remaining on board, all perished.

For this most important and gallant victory Sir George Rodney was created a peer of Great Britain, Sir Samuel Hood a peer of Ireland, and Admiral Drake and Commodore Affleck baronets of the United Kingdom.

Chapter Eight.

Among the ships forming the squadron under Admiral Graves, ordered to proceed to England, was the Hector, 74, captured from the French in the glorious battle of the 12th of April 1782. Captain Bouchier, who had commanded the Zebra sloop, had been appointed to her to take her home; and although her complement had been filled up chiefly by invalids, and French and American prisoners, who had volunteered to serve in her, it was necessary also to have a certain number of prime seamen on board. These were drafted from several ships, and, to the no small satisfaction of Paul Pringle, he with Abel Bush, Peter Ogle, and Tom Snell were taken from the Fame.

As the Fame had already a fiddler, and the Hector had none, they got leave for Sam Smatch to accompany them.

Paul was anxious to let Billy live a little more on shore than he had hitherto done. “D’ye see, Abel,” he observed to his chum, “it’s time, to my mind, that he should begin to get his ribs lined with true honest English beef, and sniff up some of the old country’s fresh sharp air, and learn to slide and play snowballs, which he can’t do out in these hot outlandish parts; for if he don’t, he’ll not be growing into the stout chap we wants him to be. You mind when we was little, how we used to tumble and roll about in the snow?”

“’Deed I do, mate,” answered Abel. “There’s nothing like a roll in the snow and a mouthful of good air to put strength into a fellow’s back; besides, to my mind, Billy ought to be ashore a little to learn the ways and manners of people there—not but what I thinks our ways afloat are better, or just as good; but, d’ye see, as some day or other I suppose he will have to go on shore for a spell, he’d be just like a fish out of water if he has never been before—not know what to do with hisself any more than a bear in a china shop, or a ploughman aboard a ship.”

At length, on the 15th of August, Admiral Graves, in the Ramillies, 74, with his convoy of merchantmen and prizes captured from the French, sailed for England.

The fleet continued its course without any occurrence worthy of note till the night of the 22nd of August, when Captain Bouchier, from the bad sailing qualities of the Hector, and from her comparatively small crew, unable to make or shorten sail as rapidly as was necessary, found that she was dropping astern. She was an old ship; when captured, many of her guns had been removed at Jamaica, fifty-two only remaining; and her masts had been replaced by others of smaller dimensions, while her crew, all mustered, amounted only to three hundred men.

“I didn’t think things were so bad,” observed Paul to Abel after they had been on board a few days. “Howsomever, Abel, we’ll do our duty and trust in Providence.”

The weather became very threatening, and soon very bad after they parted from the fleet; and the officers, as they went about their duty, could scarcely conceal their anxiety as to what might be the fate of the ship, should matters, as appeared too probable, grow worse than they were.

The Admiral’s ship must be followed for a short time. On the 8th of September, the Caton, 64, and Pallas, frigate, sprung dangerous leaks. The Admiral, consequently ordered them to bear away for Halifax.

On the 16th, when the fleet was in latitude 42 degrees 15 minutes north and longitude 48 degrees 15 minutes west, the weather gave signs of changing, and a violent gale from the east-south-east sprung up and increased towards night. The crews of the ships did all that seamen could do under such circumstances; sails were furled or closely reefed, topmasts were struck, and everything secured to meet the rising tempest. Still it blew harder and harder, and the sea increased and ran mountains high, so that all knew, should one ship be driven against another, most probably both would go down together. With unabated fury it continued all night till three o’clock in the morning, when for a moment there was a lull, and many thought that the tempest was over; but sadly were they deceived. With a roar of thunder, down came the wind upon them in a terrific hurricane; and on board the ill-fated squadron the crashing of masts and spars told of the sad havoc it was committing, while numbers of the merchantmen were thrown on their beam-ends at the same instant, never to rise again.

The Ramillies had been carrying her mainsail, when, the squall striking her, she was taken aback, and before the clew-garnets could be manned and the sail clewed up, the mainmast went overboard, carrying with it in its fall the mizen-mast, the fore-topmast and foreyard; the tiller broke off at the head, and then in an instant the noble ship lay a helpless wreck on the tossing ocean. The carpenter sounded the well, and it was found that a leak had been sprung, and that there were six feet of water in the hold. The chain-pumps were manned; but great was the dismay when it was found that they were choked and would not work.

When the day broke, indescribable was the scene of horror and distress which the light disclosed. Nearly all the ships of war were dismasted and otherwise disabled. Many of the convoy had suffered in the same way, and others had actually foundered, while the tumultuous sea around was dotted thickly with wrecks. Numbers of unhappy beings, both men and women, were seen either lashed or clinging to them, or to shattered masts or spars, while the utter impossibility of lowering a boat in such a sea rendered their situation still more piteous. In vain they shrieked—in vain they waved for assistance. One by one they were torn from their holds, and, hopelessly struggling, sunk amid the waves. Some of the ships less disabled managed to steer near a few of the wrecks; and by means of ropes hove to them, a small number were thus saved, but small indeed compared to the many who were imploring assistance; and gradually the ships drove on before the gale, and they were left to their miserable fate.

Very soon all the ships of war parted company, and the Ramillies was left with a few merchantmen only around her. Her crew were exerting themselves to the utmost to save her. Some of her guns and her heavy stores were, during the course of the day, thrown overboard, in the hopes of easing her; but she still laboured violently, and the pumps could not be cleared. Two more anxious days passed, and, in spite of all their efforts, the leak increased till there were ten feet of water in the hold. The Admiral now began to despair of saving the ship. Happily the gale had abated, so he made a signal to the merchantmen still in his company to come down to his assistance, and to take on board his crew. Their boats thickly surrounded his flagship, and by four o’clock in the afternoon all the ship’s company of the Ramillies were distributed among them. She had by this time fifteen feet of water in her hold.

The last sad act of the drama was to be performed. By the directions of the Admiral, her commander, Captain Moriarty, set her on fire fore and aft, and then, with his boat’s crew, pulled on board the merchantman prepared to receive him. In a few minutes the fine old ship with a loud explosion blew up, and the merchantmen she had been convoying sailed on their way.

On the 4th of October, the Canada, 74, Captain Cornwallis, reached Spithead, and brought accounts of the hurricane and its dreadful effects. In vain those who had friends on board that large fleet waited to hear tidings of them. The Admiral and his scattered crew arrived, but no other man-of-war of all the number ever reached the shores of Old England.

After the Hector parted company from the fleet, she continued on her solitary voyage. Her leaky condition made it necessary to keep her pumps constantly going, a task which her weakened crew were ill able to perform. Had it not been for Paul Pringle and his shipmates from the Fame, the greater number would soon have flinched from the work.

Sam Smatch, too, aided not a little, and his fiddle was in constant requisition to keep up their spirits. When not engaged in playing for the amusement of the men, he employed himself in fiddling to little True Blue, whom Tom Snell had lately undertaken to instruct in dancing a hornpipe. No more apt scholar was ever found.

“Anybody would know that he was a true sailor’s son by the way the little chap handles his feet!” exclaimed Tom with delight as he and his old shipmates stood round, with intense admiration depicted on their countenances, while Billy was performing in public for the first time. “Watch now there his double shuffle—how he slips his little feet about just as if they were on ice!—and hear what a crack he gives his fingers. It won’t be long before he’ll take the shine out of many a big fellow who fancies that he hasn’t got an equal.”

Similar remarks of approbation continued to be showered down on Billy, who certainly entered into the spirit of the dance with all the zest that his patrons could desire, while Sam Smatch fiddled away and grinned from ear to ear with delight.

They were thus engaged when, on the afternoon of the 24th of September, a cry was heard from the masthead that two sail were in sight. In a short time it was ascertained that the strangers were standing towards the Hector. Whether, however, they were friends or foes, she was not in a condition to avoid them. On they came, and towards evening it was seen that they were French frigates, of forty guns each. Captain Bouchier addressed his people, urging them to stand boldly to their guns, and promising them to fight the ship to the last. Paul Pringle backed the Captain with all his influence among the men; but his heart was very sad, for he felt that, from the great superiority of the enemy, they would very likely come off victorious; and if so, little Billy True Blue might be carried to France and brought up as a Frenchman. Such an idea had always been a horror to him, and the too great probability that it might now be realised made his heart sink lower than it had ever done before.

The only alternative seemed to be that of going down with their flag still flying; but the safety of little Billy, who would be involved in the catastrophe, made that too terrible to contemplate. So Paul talked to Abel, and Tom, and Peter, and his other friends, and they went round among the men and urged them to stand boldly to their guns, to blaze away as fast as they could, and to try and beat off the Frenchmen. Night came on before the enemy got up to them, and for some time the two frigates were seen hovering just beyond range of their guns, as if uncertain whether or not to attack them.

Of course Billy, in spite of his entreaties to be allowed to remain on deck, was sent below with Sam, who received the strictest charge under no pretence to allow him to escape. An hour or more passed, and then, through the thick gloom of night, the two strangers were seen drawing near. As they ranged up, after passing her quarters and pouring in a heavy fire, the Hector opened her broadsides in return. Now they sailed by, and first one and then the other crossed her bows, raking her as they did so. Broadside after broadside was poured into her. Many of her brave crew were struck down, some never to rise again. Still Captain Bouchier, ably seconded by Captain O’Brien Drury, who was on his passage to England, continued to defend the ship, though, from want of hands, a complete broadside could never be fired.

Still the few strong, able-bodied seamen made up in activity in a great measure for the paucity of their numbers, and for the weakness of the rest. Paul, Abel, Tom, and Peter, and the rest literally flew about the decks, and handled the guns as if they were quakers made of wood and not of heavy metal.

The officers laboured like the men; their example encouraged the sick and wounded, who slid out of their hammocks and seized the gun-tackles, hauling at them with an energy which no one would have supposed they possessed. Even the Americans and French, in the excitement of the moment, seemed to forget that they were helping their late enemies, and laboured like the rest, in spite of the showers of shot which came crashing in on them. Still, exert themselves as they would, they knew that the Frenchmen must have been aware, from their mode of firing, that they were short of guns, because, having approached while it was yet day, they had seen by her size that she was a seventy-four-gun ship.

The Captain and master stood by the helm, and frequently had to call the men from the guns to trim sails, in order to alter the position of the ship, and to avoid being raked by the French frigates, who, nimble in their movements, again and again attempted to cross her bows and stern. Frequently they succeeded, and their shot came tearing along her decks, and ripping them up fore and aft, wounding the beams and knocking some completely away. Still the British would not give in. Had there been more men on board the Hector, the slaughter would have been much greater. As it was, numbers were falling on every deck.

At length the discouraging cry arose that the Captain was desperately wounded. At that moment his voice was heard exclaiming, loud above the din of battle, “Never fear, my lads; my heart is unhurt, and that still beats for you!”

Just then the first lieutenant was standing not far from Paul Pringle when a shot struck him to the deck. Paul stooped to raise him.

“Let me remain here, my lads,” he said in a low voice. “It’s all over with me; but stick to your guns. Tell the men never to give in.”

These were his last words, for his life was ebbing fast away. Now it was known that Captain Drury had taken command, and once more the courage of the crew, which had begun to sink at the loss of their two principal officers, revived as before. The Frenchmen must have been severe sufferers by the fire of the Hector, and must have felt the apparent hopelessness of compelling her to strike.

Suddenly there was a cry that the French frigates were ranging up alongside, with the evident intention of boarding. Their decks had been seen crowded with men, and there could be no doubt that they had troops on board.

“Boarders, prepare to receive boarders!” shouted Captain Drury through his speaking trumpet. Of course the most active and best men had been told off for the service. Crash came the two ships of the enemy, one on each quarter. Paul Pringle, with Abel Bush, were among the leading men of the party, headed by the second lieutenant, while several of their old shipmates were with them. The instant the Frenchmen’s bows touched the Hector’s sides, numbers of the enemy came swarming on board on the upper deck and through the ports on the main deck. Paul and Abel and their companions rushed aft, with cutlass in hand, to repel the Frenchmen who were attacking on the starboard side. Pistols were flashing, bullets whizzing, and swords were clashing, while a hot fire of musketry was kept up from the enemy’s poops, and the great guns which could be brought to bear were playing away without cessation. There seemed, indeed, every probability that numbers would gain the day. Paul began to think so likewise. Still, amid the desperate fight, one idea was uppermost in his mind. It was about little True Blue. It was the dread, if the enemy gained the day, that he would be turned into a little frog-eating Frenchman.

“Remember our own little True Blue, mates!” he shouted. “Whatever we do, don’t let the Crapauds have him. Huzza for our Billy! Huzza for little True Blue!” and he and his old shipmates, making a fresh and still more desperate onset against the enemy, cut them down right and left, and drove them back with prodigious slaughter, some on board the frigate and some into the water, where many sank to rise no more. Just then, either from accident or design, the frigate on that side sheered off; but the Frenchmen who had attacked on the larboard side had already gained a footing on the Hector’s deck. Every inch of it was, however, being hotly disputed; and now Paul and his companions, with their newly-invented battle cry, rushed over on that side to the assistance of their shipmates. Their coming turned the tide of the fight. “Huzza for Billy True Blue! Huzza for our Billy!” shouted Paul, and Abel, and Tom, and Peter. Step by step, as they had advanced, only at a much greater speed, the Frenchmen were driven back,—though numbers never got back, being cut down as they stood,—till at last the rest, with desperate springs, endeavoured to regain their ship. Very few accomplished their intention, for most of them shared the fate of their friends in the other ship.

Many, indeed, had no friendly plank to step on, for the frigate fell away and left them deserted on the Hector’s decks. No one thought of asking for quarter, and in the heat of that desperate fight no quarter was given. The instant the ship was free of her opponents, the crew flew back to their guns and began to blaze away with as much energy as before. Now the old seventy-four’s yards and blocks, and rigging, came rattling down from aloft; her sails hung in tatters, and the water rushing in told of numerous shot-holes between wind and water, while scarcely a brace or a sheet remained to enable her to alter her position. Once again the Frenchmen ranged up alongside. Again the cry was heard, “Boarders, repel boarders!”

As before, two parties of seamen, and a few of the invalid soldiers and others, rushed to repel them. Neither party could tell how far success was attending the exertions of their friends. Paul’s was very nearly overpowered; but again Billy True Blue’s name was shouted to the rescue, and, with as much slaughter as before, the Frenchmen were driven back to their ships. On the larboard side the fight was even more obstinate; but British pluck gained the day, and tumbled most of the Frenchmen into the sea.

Again the Frenchmen drew off and opened their broadsides. Dawn was now breaking, and what a scene of wreck and havoc did the pure fresh light disclose! Captain Drury gazed with grief at the state of the ship, for he knew that the increasing light would exhibit it to the enemy and encourage them in persisting in the attack. Still he resolved to make them pay dear for their victory, if they were to gain it; and calling on the half-fainting crew to persevere to the last, he ordered them to pour their broadsides into the enemy, who were just then passing them abeam. The men with alacrity obeyed, and cheers, though often faint and feeble, from nearly dying men ran along the decks, and showed the enemy that the true British courage of the Hector’s crew was still unabated. Again another broadside was loaded, and they were preparing to pour it in on the enemy, when what was their surprise to see both the frigates make all sail and stand away to the westward! Some parting shots and some hearty cheers were sent after them; and then numbers of the brave crew sank down exhausted on the decks, slippery with the gore of their shipmates.

Even Paul Pringle began to tremble like a child, and could scarcely drag his legs after him as he went below to assure himself of the safety of little Billy. Stout-hearted as he was, he could not help shuddering at the scenes of horror which met him on every side—at the shattered condition of the ship, and the shrieks and groans of the wounded, now in the hands of the surgeons. Many poor fellows lay about, too, apparently unhurt, but expiring through fatigue. Still, nothing stopped him till he reached the hold.

The water was finding its way down there from the shot-holes above, and all was dark and gloomy. He groped his way on, shouting out for Sam and Billy. At length little True Blue’s voice was heard.

“Here I, Billy; but Sam no let me come.”

“Yes, Billy, you go now—you go now,” said Sam in reply. When Paul got up to them, he found by the dim light of the lantern which Sam had that he had made the child fast to a stanchion, evidently for fear of his again running away, and he was now busily engaged in casting him loose.

As soon as little Billy was free, he rushed up to Paul, who look him in his arms and hugged him and kissed him, as a fond mother would have done, while the child burst into tears, exclaiming:

“Billy so—so berry glad Paul not hurt. How Abel? how Peter? how Tom?”

“Not one of them hit, my boy, I believe,” answered Paul, giving him another hug. “You’ve been thinking on us, then, have you? And we was thinking on you, that we was, bless your little heart; and we made the Frenchmen know that they shouldn’t have you as long as we’d a plank to float you on, and an arm to strike for you. And now, Sam, just stump up out of this, and try and get Billy some breakfast. I must go and lend a hand in getting the ship to rights.”

In the action one lieutenant and eight men had been killed, and thirty-two wounded—their brave captain among the number, having lost his arm, and being otherwise much injured, while from that day many other poor fellows sank under their hardships and privations.

The hope now of reaching England was abandoned, and the ship bore up for Halifax. Scarcely, however, was the helm shifted when a squall struck her, and in an instant, as if they had been mere willow wands, the already injured masts went with a crash over the sides. Now the tempest came on and roared louder and louder, and the sea got rapidly up and tossed the big ship helplessly about, and, before the slightest sail could be made to keep her before the wind and steady her, a sea struck her rudder and carried it away.

Thus like a log she lay, tossed about by the waves. The riven decks could ill keep out the water which washed aboard her, while many of the beams gave way, and those of the orlop-deck bent and cracked till several of them fell into the hold. Nothing now seemed to stop the entrance of the water. Paul and his old companions exerted themselves to the utmost. They did not like to believe for a moment that the ship would go down, and yet they could not help seeing that such a fate was too likely to befall her. Furiously raged the hurricane. Higher and higher rose the sea, and more and more the ship worked; and the leaks increased till the entire hold was flooded, and casks and provisions of all sorts were rolled helplessly about; the bread was spoiled, the water-casks were stove in, and the greater portion of the fresh water destroyed.

“Paul, what is to be done?” said Abel to his friend.

“Pump away, mates, and trust in Providence,” was the answer. “Fresh hands to the pumps, ho!” he sang out with as cheerful a voice as he could command.

His shipmates followed his example and worked away with fresh energy; but pumping is exhausting work, and dry work, too, and there was scarcely any water left, and but a few casks of spirits could be got at. These were carried aft and kept under charge of a sentry. A small quantity only was served out at intervals to each man with a little biscuit; and this was all the crew had to sustain life and enable them to undergo the increasing exertions they were called on to make. Many of the invalids could no longer exert themselves in the slightest degree, and numbers died every day. The surgeons went among the poor fellows and did their utmost, but without sufficient or wholesome sustenance their efforts were unavailing; and one of the saddest labours of each morning was to commit to the deep those who had perished during the night.

At length the gale ceased, and jury-masts were rigged, and the officers thought that by getting a sail thrummed under the ship’s bottom some of the leaks might be stopped. By great exertions they got the sail placed as was intended, but it had no effect whatever: the leaks continued to increase, and consternation and despair appeared on the countenances of nearly all. Some poor fellows actually sank down at the pumps and died; others refused to work at them any longer, declaring that it was utterly useless making the attempt to keep the ship afloat, and the officers had to use the greatest exertions to persuade them to remain at their duty.

“Come, come, mates!” exclaimed Paul Pringle when he saw several quitting the pumps, “there’s not a man of you but what would be ready to stand to his guns and die at them gladly; then why not stand to the pumps to the last, and die like true men doing our duty? Hurrah! lads, who knows but what we may keep the old ship afloat till help of some sort comes to us? And never let it be said that we turned cowards and shrank from our duty.”

Thus exhorted, the greater number again seized the pump-handles and buckets, and continued to work away as before. Still it was too evident that, spite of all their exertions, the leaks were gaining on them. Even the most hopeful began to despair that all their efforts would do no more than prolong their lives. Some few, indeed, went to their hammocks, and, lashing themselves in, declared their intention of remaining there, and thus going down with the ship.

“Oh, shame on you!” cried Paul Pringle when he saw some of them doing this. “Do you call yourselves British seamen, and yet afraid to face death at your quarters? The ship is still afloat, and may float for some hours longer for what you can tell. Think of your duty, lads—think of your duty, and never flinch from it to the last.”

While Paul was saying this, however, his brave heart was very sad. In the cabin of the Captain’s steward sat Sam Smatch, holding little True Blue on his knee. The child’s countenance showed that he partook of the anxiety of all around, and, moreover, that he, too, was suffering from the want of proper sustenance; the colour had forsaken his cheeks, and he looked thin and weak. In vain his friends had foraged for him; they could find nothing but damaged biscuit and salt beef, uncooked. Paul often thought of making a raft; but out in the Atlantic what would be the use of that? It might only prolong the child’s life for a few hours, and inflict on it greater sufferings. Still, he said nothing on the subject.

Again and again the carpenter sounded the well. Each time his report was more disheartening. The end of September arrived, and there was not a drop of spirits or water in the ship. Death in another dreadful form now stared the seamen in the face. Each day the poor feverish wretches cried out for water to moisten their lips, but none was to be had. Many died from that want alone, others from starvation.

Each morning the horizon was anxiously scanned, in the hope that some ship might be in sight to bring them relief. Even an enemy would have been welcomed, for their condition would have excited the compassion of their greatest foes.

Daylight, on the 3rd of October, broke. From the report of the carpenter, the officers knew that the ship could not float many hours longer; and, like brave men and Christians, they prepared to meet that death which now seemed inevitable. The day drew on—slight were the hopes that another would ever dawn on them. A few still refused to give way to despair. Paul Pringle was among the number. He climbed to the head of the jury-mast to have another look out. In vain he looked—still he lingered. Then his eye brightened. “A sail! a sail!” he shouted. With the most intense eagerness he watched her. “She sees us! she sees us! she is bearing down on us!” he cried, still remaining at his post to watch her.

In a short time her hull rose above the horizon, and those on deck could see her. Many burst into tears, and some fell on their knees on deck, and thanked Heaven that assistance had been sent them. Still their anxiety was great, for even before the stranger could get up to them the ship might go down.

“Well!” cried Paul Pringle, seizing little True Blue and holding him in his arms, “if she does, I’ll have a swim for it, and save the most precious thing aboard—that I will.” Paul had got a grating ready, into which he was prepared to spring should the catastrophe occur.

Still the Hector floated. The stranger proved to be the Snow Hawk, a letter of marque, belonging to Dartmouth, commanded by Captain John Hill, from Lisbon, bound to Saint John’s, Newfoundland. No sooner did Captain Hill come on board and understand the miserable condition of the Hector, than, without bargain or agreement, he at once offered to render every assistance in his power. Some few of the wounded were at once removed, but darkness prevented the others leaving the ship. He therefore remained by them all night; but though the spirits of some revived, it was a night of fearful anxiety to many, who believed that at any moment the ship might go down. Paul was of opinion that she would float, but he never let go of Billy, and kept a sharp eye on his grating in case of accident. The next morning, as the men were told off into the boats, only two hundred out of the three which had left the West Indies were found to have survived. As most of the Hector’s boats were damaged, it took a long time to remove the crew; and the greater part of the day had passed before all, with their wounded Captain, were on board the Hawk. Scarcely had the last boat left her than the Hector made one plunge and went down head first into the depths of the ocean. So crowded was the Hawk, that Captain Hill threw overboard a considerable quantity of his cargo to accommodate his passengers. The wind held fair, but all hands were put on a very limited allowance of provisions and water. The last cask of water was abroach on the very day the Hawk reached Saint John’s. No man more deserved to have his name held in remembrance than Captain Hill for his generous and humane conduct on that occasion.

In time, Paul Pringle and his companions, with their young charge and most of the survivors of the Hector’s crew, found their way to the shores of Old England, by which time peace was proclaimed, and men began to indulge in the fond fancy that wars were to cease for ever on the globe.

Chapter Nine.

The year 1793 had commenced, the French had cut off the head of their King, set up the red cap of freedom, proclaimed the age of reason, pronounced liberty, equality, and fraternity to be the rule of the world, and to illustrate their meaning were preparing the guillotines and the cannon to destroy the noblest, the fairest, and best in their own land, and to attack any people who might differ from them in opinion.

War had already broken out with Great Britain. The people of Old England were girding their loins for that gigantic struggle, when nearly all the powers of Europe were leagued with those enemies who strove to overwhelm her. Right noble was the struggle, and right brave and gallant were the soldiers and sailors who then fought for the safety and honour of their well-loved country. Busy preparations were going forward. All classes were exerting themselves, from the highest to the lowest. Ministers were planning and ordering, soldiers were drilling, ships were fitting out in every harbour.

Grass did not grow in the streets of Portsmouth in those days. A large party of seamen were proceeding down the High Street of that far-famed naval port one bright day in summer. There came first undoubted men-of-war’s men, by their fearless bearing and independent air betokening a full consciousness of their value; a young and thorough sailor boy, stout, broad-shouldered, with a fair though somewhat sunburnt complexion, a row of teeth capable of grinding the hardest of biscuit, and a fine large joyous eye and pleasant mouth, exhibiting abundance of good humour and good nature, yet at the same time firmness and decision.

The seamen stopped not far from the Southsea Gate, opposite a large placard, on which it was announced that the thirty-six-gun frigate Ruby was fitting for sea with all possible despatch, and that she had lately been commissioned by a young enterprising commander, Captain Garland, and was in want of first-rate able seamen, as well as other hands, to whom no end of fighting, prize-money, liberty, and fun of every description was promised. The offers and promises thus liberally made were very similar to those put forth in the same way when other ships were fitting out; and seamen had already learned to look more to the character of the ship and captain than to any other inducements held out to them.

“That will just suit us, Paul,” said one of the men after they had carefully spelt over the paper, not without some trouble.

“I’m thinking it will, Abel. But I say, mate, I wonder if Captain Garland is the youngster we had aboard the old Terrible?” answered Paul Pringle, for he was the person addressed. “He was a fine little chap then. Can he have grown into a Post-Captain already?”

“Why, just look at our Billy True Blue here,” observed Peter Ogle, putting his hand on the shoulder of the lad who has just been described. “See, a few years has made a great change in him from the weak little baby he was when he was shipmate with the youngster.”

The boy smiled as he looked at his own strong fists and arms, and then glanced at the countenances of his friends.

“To be sure—to be sure,” said Paul Pringle. “He was a fine true-hearted boy, and there’s no doubt he’ll prove a brave, dashing, and a good captain. Let’s hear what Tom Snell, Marline, and the rest say to the matter.”

They waited till the other seamen came up. With the latter was a one-legged black man, with a fiddle-case under his arm. He was no other than Sam Smatch, who had, ever since the last war, followed the fortunes of Paul Pringle and his old shipmates. The whole party were now grouped together before the placard, with Billy True Blue in the centre. They were not left long to consult together without interruption, for the placard served the purpose for which a bait is hung up in a wood, or placed at the bottom of a pit, while the hunter stands by to watch for the appearance of the animals it may attract. In this case, the first lieutenant of the Ruby was acting the part of the hunter. He had taken a survey of the men from a shop window, and speedily made his appearance on the spot. They knew him by the single simple epaulette on his shoulder. He addressed them at once in a free, hearty tone.

“Well, my lads, you see what’s wanted,” said he. “If you wish to serve under one of the smartest, bravest officers in the Navy, you will join the Ruby. We want some prime hands like most of you. Come, which of you will join? Say the word and stick to it.”

“Why, sir, d’ye see, we all goes together, or we doesn’t go at all,” said Paul Pringle, stepping forward. “We’ve been shipmates off and on for many years, and we wish to be so till we lays up in ordinary again.”

“I may, perhaps, be able to arrange that matter,” answered the lieutenant, not liking to show all the satisfaction he felt, or to yield too soon to the demands the men might make. “But that boy, now? Perhaps we may have boys enough on board already. I suppose you don’t wish to take him to sea?”

“Not him, sir! If he doesn’t go, none on us goes,” answered Paul briskly.

“None on us,” echoed all the other godfathers.

“He is your son, I conclude, my man?” said the lieutenant, addressing Paul.

“No, sir, not mine more than Abel Bush’s or Peter Ogle’s, or any of them astern there,” answered Paul. “No, sir, he belongs to us all, d’ye see, sir? He’s the son of an old shipmate, sir, killed out in the West Ingies, fighting with Lord Rodney; and his mother was an old shipmate too; and so the boy was left to the ship’s company, and they chose us to look after him—and we have looked after him, and we intend to look after him; and we loves him just as if he was a son, and more nor some fathers do their sons, and that’s the truth on’t, sir; and so we all intends to ship with him, that we may have him among us, that’s it, sir.”

“That’s it, sir,” echoed the rest, to show that they were all of one mind.

“Well, if you all like to join provisionally, I will see what the Captain will consent to do,” answered the lieutenant.

Now as none of the party had the slightest idea of what joining provisionally meant, they were very much inclined to declare off altogether, when just then a young active man, with an extremely pleasant expression of countenance, in the full-dress uniform of a Post-Captain, was seen coming up the High Street. He stopped when he got up to the group of seamen.

“Ah, Mr Brine, are any of these men going to join us?” he asked, glancing his keen eyes over them. His countenance brightened when he saw Paul Pringle.

“Why, I believe that I see an old shipmate whom I have not met for many a year; and not one only—two or three more of you I remember clearly. Am I not right?” said he. “We served together in the old Terrible, and afterwards in the Fame.”

“I thought so, sir!” exclaimed Paul with a cheerful voice. “I remember you now, sir, that I do, though I shouldn’t if you hadn’t told me where we’d been together. Maybe, sir, you remember a little baby you used to be kind to, born aboard the ship. There he is, sir.”

“What, Billy True Blue! Of course I do,” answered the Captain in a pleasant tone. “Come here, my lad; and you still follow the sea, do you? You began pretty early.”

“There’s no other calling to my mind a man would wish to follow, sir,” answered True Blue.

“All right, my men,” said Captain Garland; “if you haven’t got a ship, I shall be very glad if you will join the Ruby. I do not believe that there are many frigates in the service will beat her in any way, and I promise you it will not be my fault if she isn’t a happy ship.”

“Just one word, sir, with the rest and we’ll tell you,” said Paul.

“As many as you like,” said the Captain; and he and his lieutenant stepped aside.

Scarcely a minute had passed before Paul Pringle came up to him.

“We’ll all join you, sir, Billy and all,” said he; “and I suppose, sir, you’ll not object to take Sam Smatch in? He always goes with us; and though he’s not wanted to nurse Billy now, there isn’t a better hand with his fiddle to be found anywhere. He might get a good living on shore—that he might, sir; but he’d rather stick by us, as he’s always done, in spite of all the ups and downs of a life at sea, sir.”

“Sam Smatch? Of course we’ll have him!” said the Captain, not trying to conceal how highly pleased he was at getting so fine a haul of good men at one time for his ship. “And now I wish you to accompany Mr Brine on board at once and enter. When it’s known that we have a fair number of good men, others will join; and the faster we man the ship, the sooner we shall get to sea and be at the enemy.”

A little more conversation passed. Paul and his companions went on board and entered; and Mr Brine, soon convinced that they might be trusted on shore, allowed them to go. They employed their time so well in singing the praises of their new Captain, that in a week or two the Ruby was fully manned. In those days the crew themselves were chiefly employed in fitting the ship for sea, and as they all worked with a will, in a very short time longer she had all her stores and provisions on board, and was ready to go out to Spithead. The remainder of the officers had joined; Blue Peter was hoisted, and, with a fair breeze, she stood out of Portsmouth Harbour. In two days more her powder was on board, and under all sail she was running out at the Needle Passage.

The frigate was on the home station; but there was plenty of work for her. The enemy’s cruisers were very active; and they had some fine fast frigates, which committed a great deal of mischief among the merchant shipping, and carried off numbers of prizes.

Captain Garland determined to capture one or more of these, if he could, without delay. His ship soon showed her fast-sailing qualities by making prizes of a number of small fry, in the shape of French coasters, “chasse-marées,” and two or three larger merchantmen, which were sent into either Plymouth or Portsmouth to be disposed of. This sort of work, however, did not satisfy the wishes of either the Captain or his officers or crew. Among those most eager for the fight was Billy True Blue Freeborn. That was the way in which his name had been entered in the ship’s books. He recollected clearly what a battle was, though he had not been engaged in one since that fierce engagement when he lost his friend and chief, Captain Penrose.

Since then, he had been for the greater part of the time at sea, partly on board a man-of-war, but mostly in merchantmen and coasters, where Paul Pringle took him, that, as he said, he might not be afraid of rocks and shoals, or the look of a lee-shore in a gale of wind. Out of all that time he had only remained three years on shore, as his kind guardian remarked, “to get his edication, and to larn manners.”

Paul Pringle used to boast among his friends that Billy True Blue was already a perfect seaman, and that he would sooner trust him at the helm on a squally night, or on the lookout forward on a dark one, than he would most men twice his age; but he took care never to say this in True Blue’s own hearing, lest, as he observed, “the lad should larn to think too much of hisself.”

True Blue had not been long on board the Ruby before he became a favourite with most of his new shipmates. Had he not had watchful guardians about him, he would soon have been spoilt by them. To see him dance the hornpipe, while Sam Smatch played his old fiddle, was, as his admirers declared, “indeed a pleasure not to be met with any day in the week,” except on board the Ruby. How he could shuffle and spring, and whirl, and whisk, and snap his fingers! He looked as if he was made of India-rubber, filled with quicksilver. And then he had a very good voice and a fair notion of singing, and right merrily he could troll forth some of those stirring sea-songs which have animated the gallant tars of Old England to perform deeds of the greatest heroism, and have served to beguile and soothe many an hour of their existence on the ocean, far away from home and all its softening influences.

There were several other boys on board the frigate, among whom, naturally, True Blue took the lead. He was good-natured to all of them. If they quarrelled with him, as some would, and would insist on having it out with him in a fight with fists, he generally managed to make them very cautious about trying the same experiment again.

There was one big fellow, Gregory Gipples by name, who set himself up as a sort of leader among the other boys as soon as he came on board, though he had never before been at sea. He was a big hulking fellow; and as he had a certain amount of cleverness about him, he tried to make it appear that he knew a great deal more about things than he really did. True Blue instinctively discovered that he was a braggart and inclined to be a bully.

Another boy was of a totally different character. At first sight, so delicate did he look that it seemed surprising that little Harry Hartland had been allowed to come to sea at all. But boys were wanted, and the officers who had to pass them were not very particular; besides, on further examination, Harry was stronger than he looked, and the bright expression of his countenance showed that he would probably make up by intelligence what he lacked in physical power. He had also been carefully and religiously educated, and his habits were very refined compared with those of most of the other boys. They soon learned to call him “Gentleman Harry,” though he did not seem pleased with the appellation. He was very silent as to his own early history. He said that his mother was a widow, and that he did not remember his father. He knew that she would not have the means of supporting him, so he wished to come to sea, and with the help of a friend of his own he had, after much exertion, accomplished his object.

“You couldn’t have done better—that you couldn’t, Harry!” exclaimed True Blue, to whom he had confided thus much of his early history. “I wouldn’t have to go and live in smoky cities, or to ride along dirty roads, or to have to look only at sheep, or cows, or horses, not to be the greatest lord in the land. I have never been much on shore, and maybe haven’t seen the most beautiful parts of it; but I was heartily glad to get afloat again. There you are on shore stuck in the same place day after day. What does it matter whether it’s a calm or a gale, it doesn’t make you go faster or slower. And if you want to go away, then you have to get on the outside of a coach, and be covered from truck to kelson with dust, and a precious good chance of a capsize and getting your neck broke. Now, when I was living ashore with Paul Pringle’s mother and people, there sprung up one night a gale of wind which blew down the church steeple, I don’t know how many big tall trees, and sent a large part of the thatched roof off the cottage, besides scattering the tiles of the houses right and left, and toppling down numbers of chimney-pots. There were half a dozen people killed, I heard, that night, and ever so many hurt.”

Harry smiled.

“It is lucky that you think so, and I am quite ready to agree that a sailor’s life is one of the best to choose, seeing that we shall have to spend the best part of ours afloat,” he answered. “But what I hold is, that we shouldn’t think meanly of those who have to live always on shore.”

“I don’t know as to that, Harry,” said Billy quickly. “We shouldn’t think ill of them, I’ll allow; but who can help pitying them? That’s all I say.”

The conversation of the two boys was interrupted by an order which True Blue received to go aloft and take a lookout round the horizon. This was a post of honour to which he had been especially appointed, on account of the sharpness of his vision, and the accuracy with which he noted and could describe the various sail which might be in sight. Paul Pringle watched him with pride. Up—up—up he went. The topmast shrouds were reached—topgallant masthead; the royal mast was swarmed up, and then he stood on the main truck, holding on by the staff of the vane, no longer the little child, the pet of the ship’s company, but a thorough, fearless young seaman—not the less, however, the darling of the crew.

Chapter Ten.

Day had just broken on the world of waters. It was at that time of the year when there is but little night. The water was smooth, the air soft and balmy. Gradually the grey dawn warmed up as the approaching sun cast some ruddy streaks in the eastern sky. It was True Blue’s watch on deck, and he was at his post on the truck at the main-topgallant-mast.

By slow degrees the rich glow increased. He turned his head round to every point of the compass. The Start Point was just in sight, bearing about east by north, distant five or six leagues. When his eye came to the south-east, it rested there steadily for a moment, and then, putting his hand to his mouth, he shouted, “Sail ho!” with a prolonged cadence, pointing in the direction where he saw her. The officer of the watch hailed to know what she was. “A full-rigged ship, sir,” was his unhesitating reply, although even from where he stood her topgallant-sails alone could be seen, and to a landsman’s eye nothing distinguishable would have been visible.

The Captain soon came on deck. True Blue kept his glance on the stranger, that he might note immediately any change in her course. She was standing across the Channel and drawing nearer.

“I trust that she is one of the frigates of which we are in search, Mr Brine,” said the Captain. “We’ll soon learn. Make sail on the ship.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said the first lieutenant with alacrity. “All hands make sail!”

“All hands make sail!” shouted the boatswain, putting his silver call to his mouth, and sounding a shrill whistle. “All hands make sail!—rouse up there, rouse up!—an enemy in sight, boys!”

The men sprang from their hammocks, and, shaking themselves rapidly into their clothes, were in another instant on deck. Every inch of canvas the frigate could carry was soon got on her, and she bore up in chase.

Another order quickly followed. It was, “Clear ship for action!”

Never was an order obeyed with more alacrity. The stranger appeared also to be standing under a press of sail, and steering to the southward of east.

“She wishes to escape us altogether, or is not quite ready for action,” observed the Captain to Mr Brine.

“She seems to be putting her best foot foremost, at all events,” answered the first lieutenant, taking a look at the stranger through his glass, for she could now be seen clearly from the deck. “She looks like a frigate of much about our size; and I have little doubt, by the cut of her sails, she is French.”

“I have great hopes that she is, and more, that she is one of the very frigates we have been on the lookout for,” said the Captain. “What do you think, master?” he added, turning to that officer, Mr Handlead, who stood near.

“A Johnny Crapaud, sir,” he answered quickly. “There’s no doubt about it; and to my mind the villain is making all sail to be off, because he doesn’t like the look of us.”

“I trust that we shall overtake her, and take her, too, master,” said Captain Garland. “I think that we are already gaining on her. The frigate slips well through the water.”

The crew on the forecastle were carrying on a conversation much in the same style. “Bless her heart, she is walking along at a good rate,” observed Abel Bush as he looked over the bows. “The old girl’s got as pretty a pair of heels of her own as you’d wish to see.”

“The faster she goes, the better,” answered Peter Ogle. “I never does feel comfortable like when one of those Monsieurs is in sight, till I gets up alongside him and overhauls him one way or the other. You mind how they used to give us the slip in the West Ingies. They’ll be trying on the same game now, depend on’t.”

“But when they do begin, they don’t fight badly, you’ll allow,” observed Paul Pringle.

“Maybe; but while they can lift their heels, they’ll run,” stoutly maintained Abel.

In this instance the stranger seemed determined to contradict his assertion, for at that very moment she was seen to haul up her foresail, while the topgallant-sails were lowered on the caps, where they hung swelling out and fluttering in the breeze; at the same time the flag of republican France was run up at the peak, and a shot of defiance was fired from one of her after-guns.

The British seamen, led by Paul Pringle, replied to it with a hearty cheer, which, although it could not reach the Frenchmen’s ears, served to warm up their own hearts for the fight. Although the crew had not served long together, each man knew his proper station; and there each man now stood bold and fearless, prepared for the contest.

Captain Garland, with Mr Brine near him, walked the quarterdeck, with telescope in hand, watching each movement of the enemy. The marines, commanded by their lieutenant, stood drawn up with muskets, ready to open fire as soon as they could get within range. Added to them were a party of small-arm men prepared for the same object, or ready to board if required, while others were stationed there to fight the quarterdeck guns, or to attend the braces. Here, also, were grouped the mates and midshipmen, not wanted elsewhere, ready to be despatched on any duty which might be required of them. On the maindeck the crew of each gun, with handkerchiefs round their heads, and stripped to the waist, clustered round it, the locks fixed in readiness, and the lanyards coiled around them, the tackles laid along the decks, the captains with their priming-boxes buckled on, the officers with their swords on, standing by their proper divisions; while in long rows were the round-shot and wads, with grape and canister; and at intervals sat the ship’s boys,—powder-monkeys they were often called,—each on his proper tub full of powder, which he had brought up from the magazine below. Here in the depths of the ship was the gunner, the presiding genius of destruction, ready to serve out the further supply of powder which might be required, as the boys came tripping down nimbly to receive it, with no more concern than if they had had to carry up baskets of flour or of corn. The carpenter was also below. He and his mates were preparing shot-plugs with tallow and oakum, and were placing them in readiness in the wings to stop any holes which the enemy’s round-shot might make in the ship’s side; while he was prepared to sound the well occasionally, and to make his report as to the depth of water in the hold. The other warrant-officer, the second in rank, the boatswain, stood on the forecastle with his mates, having especially to look after the masts and spars, and to repair immediately, if possible, any material damage. The purser and Captain’s clerks were mostly on the quarterdeck, and, though not fighting officers, ready and willing enough to fight like the rest; while, lastly, the surgeon and his assistants were in the cockpit, with the tables prepared, and the various implements required by them spread out—saws, tourniquets, knives, basins, and sponges, as well as restoratives of different kinds—to repair the damage, and to soothe or alleviate the pain which the chances of cruel war might inflict on frail humanity.

True Blue sat on his tub, with Harry Hartland next to him, and the big Gipples on the other side of Harry. They were stationed on the upper deck. True Blue was wishing that he was bigger, that he might be serving the guns, or might be standing with Abel Bush and other friends, who, with pistols in their belts and cutlasses at their sides, were collected ready to board the enemy, or to repel boarders, should their opponents make the attempt.

Big Gipples was in no way liking the look of things; and only the conviction that he would be sent up again with a rope’s end prevented him jumping off his tub and running down to stow himself away in the hold. The other boys, though not aware of the excess of his terror, maliciously wished to frighten him in retaliation for his bullying.

“Who’s likely to be best off now?” began Tim Fid, one of the smallest of the set, speaking across Gipples to Harry; “we little chaps or the big ones, when the round-shot comes bowling about us? They’d just as soon take a big chap’s head off as a little one’s. I’d rather, for my part, be small and weak than big and strong. Wouldn’t you, Harry?”

“Certainly,” answered Harry, who, having glanced at Gipples’ countenance, could not resist the temptation of having a fling at him. “I’ve heard it said that the big fellows in a sea-fight are generally picked off first, and that that is the reason there are more small sailors than large ones. I wonder what Billy has to say about it?”

True Blue, thus appealed to, was nothing loth to join in trying to increase the evident terror of Gipples. “Oh, as to that, I’ve heard tell how these powder tubs on which we are made to sit sometimes catches fire and blows the fellows on them like sky-rockets into the air,” remarked Billy, laughing. “Mind, it’s what I’ve heard tell of, though I never saw it. But I did see once a ship and a whole ship’s company blown up together; and, mates, I hope I may never see the same sight again. I was a little chap then, and I saw some sad things that day, but I remember that one just as clearly as if it happened a week ago.”

“Well, I do think it’s a shame we small chaps, as have never done anybody any harm, should be made to sit here to be shot at by them Monsieurs out there—that I do,” continued Tim Fid. “For my part, I do think that the Captain ought to let us little ones go down and stow ourselves comfortably away in the hold. Don’t you, Gipples?”

Gipples, not perceiving that Tim was joking, looked up and said in a half-crying tone:

“Yes, I do; if any on you chaps will come, I’ll bolt—that I will.”

On this there was a general laugh.

“I’d just like to see you,” said Tim, “whether you’d go down or come up the fastest. If every man was to do as you’d do, I should like to know what would become of the ship. The sooner you goes home and learns to hem or sell dog’s meat the better.”

The wretched Gipples saw that his feelings gained no sympathy. He tried to back out of his proposal, but his tormentors were in no way inclined to let him alone, till at last they made so much noise that they were called to order by the men standing at the guns nearest them.

Presently, too, the deep-toned voice of the Captain was heard.

“Silence there, fore and aft!” he exclaimed. “We have an enemy in sight, of equal if not greater force. We must take her, of course, but the sooner we take her the less loss and the more honour we shall gain. I intend to wait till we are close alongside before we open our fire. I shall take off my hat—wait till I lift it above my head; and then, my lads, I expect you’ll give her a right good dose of our shot.”

The seamen raised three hearty cheers. British sailors are always ready for that; and directly afterwards the taunt masts and white canvas of the French frigate were seen by those on deck rising above the hammock nettings on the larboard bow. The Captain stepped to the larboard gangway. A voice came from the deck of the Frenchman.

“What do they say?” asked the Captain of the master, who was nearest him.

“I don’t know, sir. I never could make out the Frenchmen’s lingo, and I doubt that they intend us to understand them,” answered Mr Handlead with a tone of contempt in his voice. “They are only mocking at us. It’s their way, sir.” Mr Brine more briefly said that he could not make out the Frenchman’s hail.

“Then keep her as she goes, master,” said Captain Garland; and, putting his speaking trumpet to his mouth, he shouted, “This is His Britannic Majesty’s ship, the Ruby, and I beg to know the name of yours, and the King you serve?”

“This is La Belle Citoyenne, belonging to the Republican Government of France,” was the answer. To which was added by several men in chorus, “We serve no King—no, no!”

“But we do!” cried Paul Pringle. “And right glad we are to serve him. Hurrah, boys, for King George and Old England! Hurrah! hurrah!”

Three hearty cheers burst from the throats of the British tars. Scarcely had they ceased when the French Captain, who was still standing in the gangway, was seen to hold aloft in his hand a bonnet rouge, the red cap of liberty, and briefly to address his crew in terms of considerable animation. “Vive la Nation!” he exclaimed. “Vive la République!” answered the crew.

The French Captain, having finished his speech, handed the red cap to one of the seamen, who ran with it up the rigging and screwed it on to the masthead, where it was evident that a hole was prepared to receive the screw. The marines might easily have picked him off; but no one even thought of attempting to injure the brave fellow.

The Ruby was now well up with her opponent, and the two Captains, taking off their hats, made the politest of bows to each other, the Frenchman, however, beating the English Captain in the vehemence of his flourish. Both then returned to the quarterdeck. The moment to begin the fight had arrived. Captain Garland, who had kept his hat in his hand, raised it to his head. Every eye was on him. All knew the signal he had promised to give. For an instant not a sound was heard; and then there burst forth the loud continued roar of the broadsides of the two frigates as gun after gun of the Ruby, beginning at the foremost, was brought to bear on her antagonist, responded to by the after-guns of the Frenchman. And now the two frigates ran on before the wind, so close together that the combatants could see their opponents’ faces, pouring their shot into each other’s sides. Fast as the British seamen could run in their guns, they loaded, and, straining every muscle, they were rapidly run out again and fired. While round-shot and grapeshot and canister were sent rattling in through the enemy’s ports and across her decks, about her rigging, or tearing open her sides, she gallantly returned the compliment with much the same coin. Many of the bold seamen on board the Ruby were cut down.

A shot struck two men working the gun nearest to where Gipples was sitting on his powder tub in terror unspeakable, not knowing what moment he might be hit. On came the mangled forms of the poor fellows, writhing in their dying agonies, directly against him. He and his tub were upset, and he was sent, covered with their blood, sprawling on the deck.

“Oh, I’m killed! I’m killed!” he shrieked out, and, overcome with terror, did not attempt to rise.

Two of the idlers, whose duty it was to carry the wounded below and throw the dead overboard,—the common custom in those days of disposing of them,—hearing him shriek out, thought that he had also been killed. Having disposed of the first two men who really were dead, they lifted him up and were about to throw him overboard, when, discovering how he was to be treated, he groaned out, “Oh, I ain’t dead yet—take me below.” The men having been ordered to take all the wounded to the cockpit, immediately carried him below, and, placing him on the surgeon’s table, one of them said:

“Here’s a poor fellow, gentlemen, as seems very bad; but I don’t know whether he wants an arm or a leg cut off most.”

“I hope that he may escape without losing either,” said the surgeon, lifting up Gipples and preparing to strip him to examine his wound. “Where are you hit, my man?”

“Oh, oh, sir! all over, sir!” answered Gregory.

The surgeon, who had noted Gipples for some time and guessed his character, very quickly ascertained that there was nothing whatever the matter with him. Taking up a splint, he bestowed a few hearty cuts with it on his bare body, and then, telling him to jump up and slip on his clothes, he sent him up on deck to attend to his duty. Poor Gipples would gladly have hid himself away; but he was watched, and started from deck to deck till he had resumed the charge of his powder tub. Meantime Paul Pringle was keeping an anxious eye on True Blue. There he sat as composed and fearless as if nothing unusual was going forward, only jumping up with alacrity and handing out the powder to the crews of the guns he was ordered to serve. Never was his eye brighter. Never had he seemed more full of life and animation.

“Ay, he’s of the right sort,” said Paul to himself; “I knew he’d be.”

The moment his tub was empty, down he ran to the magazine, and speedily again sprang with it on deck. His friend Harry imitated his example as well as he could; but he could not avoid stopping short when a shot crashed in just before him, carrying off the head of a seaman, whose body fell across the deck along where he had to pass.

The cry of “Powder, powder, boy!” from the captain of the gun made him move on, but his knees trembled so that he could scarcely reach his post. After he had delivered the amount of powder required and sat down on his tub, his tranquillity of mind and nerve returned. Another shot came whizzing by; he merely bobbed his head. When the next passed near him, he sat perfectly still. After that he scarcely moved eyelid or muscle, in spite of all the missiles and splinters and fragments flying about.

Not so the miserable Gipples. Compelled to stay on deck he was; but nothing could keep his head from bobbing at every shot which struck the ship or passed over her, while his whole body was continually shrinking down on the deck. Several times he lay flat along it, and so confused was he, that, when called on to deliver the powder, he often did not appear to hear, or ran off to the wrong gun; till at last, had there been anybody to supply his place, he would have been kicked below and declared unfit to be even a powder-monkey. Even Tim Fid, when the firing began, was not altogether as steady as usual; but though he bobbed and sprang about with the feeling that he was dodging the shot, which he could not do in reality, it was much in the same way that he would have dodged a big play fellow whom he did not wish to touch him; and as he never for a moment was found wanting at his post, no one complained.

The action began at a quarter-past six that bright summer morning, and for about a quarter of an hour the two frigates ran along parallel to each other, exchanging broadsides with the greatest rapidity of which their respective crews were capable. They were keeping all the time directly before the wind, and within hailing distance of each other. In that short period great had been the carnage on both sides. One of the English lieutenants and two midshipmen, besides a dozen men or more, had been killed, and half as many again had been wounded; while the bulwarks of the lately trim frigate were shattered and torn, her crew begrimed with powder, perspiration, and blood, and her white decks slippery with gore, torn up with shot, and covered with fragments from the yards and the rent woodwork around. The mainmast, too, had been severely wounded; and though some of the carpenter’s crew were busy in lashing and otherwise strengthening it, great fears were felt for its safety.

“If that goes,” exclaimed Paul Pringle, who saw the accident, “those rascally Monsieurs will get off after all!”

At about half-past six the Belle Citoyenne hauled up about eight points from the wind, thus increasing her distance from the Ruby.

“I thought how it would be!” exclaimed Paul Pringle when he saw the manoeuvre. “The Monsieurs can’t stand our fire. Wing him, boys, wing him! Don’t let the Frenchman get away from us. Here, Billy, you come here. You all know that there isn’t a better eye in the ship. Let him have a shot, boys.”

True Blue, thus summoned, sprang with delight to the gun. The mass of smoke which hung round them, and the death of the officer in charge of his division, enabled Paul to accomplish his object without question.

“Now steady, Billy, as you love me, boy!” he exclaimed in his eagerness.

True Blue had not far to stoop as he took the lanyard of the lock in his hand and looked carefully along the gun. The Ruby had herself hauled up a little. For an instant there was a cessation of firing. Billy at that moment pulled the trigger. The Frenchmen were in the very act of bracing up the mizen-topsail-yard when the mizen-mast was seen to bend over to starboard, and, with a crash, to come toppling down overboard, shot away a few feet only above the deck.

“You did it—you did it, Billy, my boy!” exclaimed Paul Pringle, almost beside himself with joy, seizing his godson in his arms and giving him a squeeze which would have pressed the breath out of a slighter body.

“Who fired that last shot?” asked the Captain from aft.

“True Blue, sir—Billy Freeborn!” cried Paul Pringle.

“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted the men at the gun.

“Bravo! let him fire another, then,” answered Captain Garland, not complaining of the irregularity of the proceeding. Not another word could have been heard, for both the Ruby and the French frigate again began pounding away at each other.

True Blue, with the encouragement he had received, stepped boldly up to the gun. The captain was Tom Marline, one of his assistant-guardians, and he was a favourite with all the rest, so that there was no feeling of jealousy excited against him.

Again he looked along it. He waited his time till the smoke had cleared away a little, and then once more he fired. The shot hit—of that both Marline and Paul Pringle were certain, but what damage was done they could not determine.

“I pitched it astern, not far from the wheel,” observed True Blue quietly. “Maybe it hit the wheel—maybe not.”

Again the firing went on as before, and True Blue modestly returned to his powder tub. More than once he jumped up, anxious to have another pull at the lanyard of his gun. Paul, however, did not encourage this; he wisely considered that he had done enough to establish a reputation, which more shots would not have increased.

Suddenly Paul struck his hands together with delight. “She is steering wildly! she is steering wildly!” he cried out. “True Blue, you did knock her wheel away—you did, boy. See what she’s about!”

The French frigate as he spoke paid off right before the wind, and presented her bows directly at the Ruby. In that position she received a raking broadside; but nothing could stop her—she was utterly without guidance, and on she came like a battering-ram directly at the beam of the Ruby. Captain Garland, so sudden was the movement, could accomplish no manoeuvre to avoid the collision. The French ship’s jibboom, as she fell on board the English frigate, passed directly between her fore and mainmasts, and there she hung, while it pressed so hard against the already wounded mainmast that there appeared every prospect of the latter being carried away. Just before, a shot had struck the boatswain and brought him mortally wounded to the deck.

Paul Pringle knew of his loss. As he looked at the mast, strained to the utmost, the main and spring stays being also shot away, he thought to himself, “If the mast goes the Frenchman will break clear, and ten to one, after all, escape us.”

It was a time for decision, not for much consideration.

“Who’ll follow me, lads?” he exclaimed, seizing an axe and springing into the rigging.

Tom Marline and several other bold fellows did follow. They had to ascend and then to descend the tottering mast. Terrific was the danger. Should the mast fall, their death would be almost certain. They thought, however, only of the safety of the ship, or rather, how they might best prevent the escape of the enemy. With right good will they plied their axes on the enemy’s jibboom. Bravely they hacked away, in spite of the fire of musketry which was kept up from her decks. Meantime a cry was raised below that the French were about to board.

“Boarders, repel boarders!” cried Captain Garland.

“I’ll lead you, my lads!” exclaimed the first lieutenant. “See, they are not coming; but we’ll be at them—hurrah!”

True Blue, finding that there was no more work for him to do in getting up powder, and seeing Abel Bush and Peter Ogle, with a few others, following Mr Brine on board the Frenchman, seized the cutlass of a seaman who had just been killed close to him, and, in the impulse of the moment, sprang after them. In vain, however, their gallant leader endeavoured to get on board from the upper deck. Numbers of Frenchmen stood in the head, and, in spite of all the activity of the British seamen, they could not spring into it. On finding this, quick as lightning Mr Brine leaped down, and, followed by a few, reached the maindeck. Then, calling more round him, he sprang through the bow-ports of the enemy’s maindeck, with Peter Ogle, True Blue, and a few others, driving all opponents before him. Just at that moment, before all the boarders had time to follow, Paul Pringle had succeeded in cutting through the Frenchman’s jibboom, with all the connecting rigging, and, her head coming round, she was once more clear of the Ruby, and drifting helplessly away from her. Even while engaged in his task, Paul’s watchful eye had detected True Blue seizing the cutlass, and when he followed Mr Brine he guessed his object. Still he did not suppose that those with him would allow the boy to board the Frenchman; and, at all events, he was not the man to be deterred by any consideration from completing the duty which he had undertaken.

The moment, however, that he had performed it thus effectually, he slid down rapidly on deck and eagerly sought for his godson. He was met with a cry from Harry Hartland and Tim Fid, “Oh yes, Paul, he’s gone—True Blue’s gone; he’s on board the Frenchman, and they’ll make mincemeat of him—that they will!”

He observed, also, Abel Bush, Tom Marline, and others standing eyeing the French frigate, the very pictures of anxiety and disappointed rage. He saw too clearly that True Blue must have been one of those who had been carried off in the French ship when she broke adrift from them. To assist in clearing her, the Ruby’s helm had been put aport, or to larboard, as was then the expression, and this carried her still farther away from La Belle Citoyenne.

Captain Garland was not aware for some little time that any of his people had gained the enemy’s decks. The instant the fact was communicated to him, he became doubly eager to get once more alongside. The minutes, however, appeared like hours to those who knew that their shipmates and friends were surrounded by exasperated foes, who were too likely, in the heat of the moment, to give no quarter. Paul Pringle groaned with anxiety for the fate of his godson. There he stood, his huge beard blackened with smoke and dabbled with a shipmate’s blood; his hair, which had escaped from under his handkerchief when he went aloft, streaming in the breeze; his brawny arm bared, and his drawn cutlass in his hand; and looking truly like one of the sea-kings of old, the rovers of the main, prepared for a desperate struggle with his enemies. Just then the sails of the French frigate were taken aback, and the effect of this was to cause her to make a stern board, which drove her right down on the Ruby.

Once more, by slightly shifting his helm, Captain Garland allowed her to drop alongside, the respective bows and sterns of the two ships being in opposite directions.

“And now, my lads, lash her fast!” he shouted. “We must not let her part from us till she is ours.”

The very instant the sides of the two frigates ground together, Paul Pringle, who, with a party of boarders, many of them old shipmates, stood ready on the maindeck, sprang through the after-ports, shouting out, “Remember little True Blue, boys! Let us get back our Billy True Blue!”

The clash of steel and the occasional report of pistols saluted their ears, and there stood at bay the gallant little band, the lieutenant and Peter Ogle, with most of the men, bleeding at every pore—one or two, indeed, stretched lifeless at their feet; but True Blue himself was nowhere to be seen. Numbers were pressing round the gallant band, and in another instant it seemed likely that they would have been overwhelmed. With such impetuosity, however, did Paul and his party dash on board, that although numbers of the Frenchmen were thronging the maindeck, they were rapidly driven back. In vain they struggled—in vain they fought. Nothing could stop the fierce onslaught of the British seamen.

High above all other cries, Paul Pringle’s voice was heard shouting the name of True Blue. “We must find our True Blue. Huzza for our True Blue, boys!”

Thus timely relieved, Mr Brine was once more able to advance aft, and now on both sides, led by him and by old Handlead, who was among the first of the second party, the British tars swept the Frenchman’s maindeck fore and aft, cutting down or driving below all before them.

At length, when near the after-hatchway, the Frenchmen made a bold stand, as if resolved to sell their lives dearly or to drive back their assailants. Just then, Paul caught sight of True Blue himself, struggling to get free from between two of the after-guns, to which place it was evident he had been carried as a prisoner.

“There he is, boys! there is our True Blue!” shouted Paul, and at the same moment he and his companions dashed on with redoubled energy from the check they had received, tumbled all the remaining Frenchmen down into the cockpit, and in another instant Paul had once more grasped his godson by the hand.

“You deserve one thing, Billy, and you shall do it!” he exclaimed. “Follow me quick, though.”

He sprang up the ladder to the upper deck. Meantime the officers had placed parties at the hatchways to keep in check those who had taken refuge below, the remaining few who appeared on the maindeck having thrown down their arms and prayed for mercy.

On the upper deck stood a gallant few surrounding their Captain, who lay wounded among them at the foot of the mainmast. They seemed scarcely aware that their companions below had yielded, and that all hope of resistance was vain. The rush of the British seamen who now swarmed on board and swept along the deck undeceived them, and, driven right and left or overboard, the remainder dropped their swords and asked for quarter.

Paul, followed by True Blue, had gained the main-rigging. His quick eye had discovered that the halliards of the Frenchman’s flag, that of the new Republic, led into the top.

“There, boy!” exclaimed Paul, “you must haul that down. Quick, aloft!”

True Blue required no second order, but, springing up the ratlines before anybody could overtake him, he had reached the top, when, seizing the halliards, down came gliding the flaunting tricolour, followed quickly by the red cap of liberty, which, unscrewing, he threw among the people on deck; and three hearty cheers from the British crew announced that the well-fought battle was won.

The gallant French Captain opened his dim eyes at the sound, to see the emblem for which he had striven trampled under foot. He had been endeavouring, since he saw that all hope of escape was over, to tear to pieces with his teeth and to swallow a paper which he had drawn from his pocket. Suddenly, while thus engaged, he saw the red cap fall like a flash of fire from aloft. His fingers released their hold of the paper, and with a deep groan he expired.

Mr Brine stooped down by the side of his brave opponent. The paper he had been endeavouring to destroy was his commission; but another paper projected from his pocket. It was a code of private signals, which, with noble patriotism, he had wished to prevent falling into an enemy’s hands.

“Well, I suppose there is some good in those Frenchmen after all!” exclaimed old Handlead when he heard of it. “He tried to serve his country to the last, at all events.”

No time was now lost in securing the prisoners and removing them to the Ruby as the two ships lay alongside each other. Some of the Frenchmen looked very glum, and evidently, if they could get an opportunity, meant mischief; but they mostly yielded to the fortune of war with a shrug, and by the evening were skipping away right merrily, to the sound of Sam Smatch’s fiddle. Indeed, they had little cause for animosity against him, as he had taken no part whatever in their capture, having volunteered to remain below to assist the surgeon. The English, in this gallant action, a type of many which were to follow, had just fifty men killed and wounded, while the French lost between sixty and seventy. Just as the last of the prisoners were removed, and the prize crew of the Belle Citoyenne had got on board, the two ships separated.

When once more the two frigates were in a condition to make sail, and were standing along amicably together, Captain Garland called the crew aft. “My lads,” he cried, “all have done well to-day. That fine frigate, now ours, is the best proof of it—won, too, let me tell you, from the moment the first shot was fired till the flag was hauled down, in less than an hour. When all have done their duty like brave British seamen, I can scarcely pick out any in particular to praise; but there is one lad among you who rendered material service in the work of the day.”

Paul Pringle brightened, and, his countenance beaming with pleasure, he placed his hand on his godson’s shoulder. The Captain went on:

“There was one shot which especially tended to secure us the prize; that shot was fired by the boy Freeborn—True Blue Freeborn. I shall have my eye upon him. If he goes on as he has begun, he will be an honour to the service, and rise in it, too, if I mistake not. Lads, you have all my hearty thanks, and our King and country will thank you too.”

Three hearty cheers for their gallant Captain were given by the crew as he finished his address; and then, however unexpected, and as Paul Pringle expressed himself, “almost dumfoundering,” three more were raised for Billy True Blue Freeborn, the pride of the crew. No one shouted louder than Tim Fid and Harry Hartland; but Gipples growled out as he sneaked below, “It’ll be all the same some day when a shot takes his head off. They can’t keep that on with all their petting.”

The next day the frigate reached Portsmouth, where the brave French Captain was buried with all the honours of war; and Captain Garland, and his officers and ship’s company, received the praises and rewards which they so well-merited for their gallant achievement.

Chapter Eleven.

The frigate very soon had made good the damages she received in the fight, and once more put to sea, all on board wishing for nothing better than a similar encounter with another enemy, feeling full confidence that the result would be the same.

One morning at daybreak, when True Blue had been sent aloft to take a lookout and report any sail in sight, his keen eye detected a small speck floating in the calm, hazy ocean. He knew that the speck was a boat, and hailed to that effect. There was a light breeze from the eastward, and the frigate, under all plain sail, was standing on a bowline to the southward. She was hauled up a few more points, to fetch the boat, which it was soon seen, instead of attempting to escape, was approaching the frigate. Numerous were the conjectures as to what she was; for although an open boat out in mid-channel was not exactly a novelty, still any incident was of interest in those stirring times, when all knew that apparent trifles often led to something important.

The boat appeared to be that of a merchantman. Six men were in her; four were pulling, and two sat in the sternsheets. One of these was a wrinkled, wiry old man, with a big red nightcap on his head, and a huge green and yellow comforter round his throat, while a thick flushing coat and trousers, and high boots, concealed the rest of his form. The other looked like the master of a merchantman. As soon as they got alongside, the latter begged that the boat might be hoisted up. This was done; and while the other men went forward among the crew, he and his strange-looking companion repaired aft to the Captain’s cabin. The information they gave seemed to afford infinite satisfaction to Captain Garland. Several of his officers were breakfasting with him.

“I trust, gentlemen, that, before many days have passed, we shall fall in with another enemy’s frigate, a worthy antagonist for the Ruby,” he remarked as soon as they were seated. “We have also on board, I am happy to say, one of the most experienced pilots for the Channel Islands and the French coast to the westward—a Guernsey man; and, what is more, I know that he is thoroughly to be trusted. He and his companions were on board a merchant vessel, captured by a French privateer; and as the enemy leaped on the deck on one side, they slipped over the bulwarks on the other, and, favoured by the darkness, effected their escape. I propose to run over to the French coast, and watch off Cherbourg for the return of two French frigates, which, I understand, robber-like, go out every night and return into harbour in the morning.”

At first the crew were very much inclined to laugh at the odd appearance of the old pilot; but Paul Pringle soon got into conversation with him, and gave it as his opinion that the little finger of the old Guernsey man knew more than a dozen of their heads put together, both as to seamanship and as to the navigation of the adjacent coasts. It quickly became known that there was something in the wind, and that the Captain hoped to fall in with another enemy before long.

Cape Barfleur, to the westward of Cherbourg, was made during the night. The wind was off shore, and the Ruby was close-hauled on the larboard tack, when, as day dawned, a ship and a cutter were seen from her deck coming in from seaward. All hands were called up, the frigate was cleared for action, and the men went to their quarters. Every glass was turned towards the approaching strangers.

“We shall have another scrimmage—that we shall!” exclaimed Tim Fid to True Blue. “I wonder what Gipples will do this time?”

“It’s a pity he ever came to sea again after the last cruise,” answered Billy. “He’ll never make a sailor, and only bring shame on the name of one.”

“He’s just fit to sell cat’s meat,” observed Harry. “Maybe one of the shot he’s so afraid of will take his head off, as it might that of a better fellow, and that will settle for him.”

With this philosophical remark the boys sat down on their powder tubs to await the commencement of the action; while poor Gipples, who had overheard what was said, sat quaking on his in a most pitiable manner.

The Ruby was kept edging away towards the supposed enemy. As the daylight increased, there was little doubt of her character, and she was pronounced to be a thirty-six-gun frigate.

“A fit opponent for us!” exclaimed the Captain. “We can allow her the cutter’s assistance, and we must see how quickly we can take them both.”

The cutter, however, seemed to have no inclination to assist her consort, from whom she kept hovering at some distance.

There was not much time for talking or speculation. The Ruby soon ranged up on the weather and larboard side of the Frenchman, at whose peak flew the ensign of Republican France. It would have been throwing away words to have exchanged compliments or interrogations in this case. The Frenchmen, indeed, maintained a surly silence, till it was broken by the rapid interchange of broadsides between the two well-matched combatants. The chances of war seemed, however, in this instance to be going against the Ruby. At the second broadside, down came her fore-topsail-yard, followed soon afterwards by the fore-topmast.

“This will never do!” exclaimed Paul Pringle, beckoning to Billy and sending a man to take charge of his tub. “Come here, boy. You must try and see if you can’t do as well as you did when we took the Citoyenne. Give her as good at least as she has given us.”

True Blue, nothing loth, began to take a sight along the gun. Just then the Captain had ordered the Ruby’s helm to be put hard a-starboard, by which she came suddenly round on the opposite tack, and brought her larboard guns to bear on the enemy.

True Blue, finding the ship going about, knew that no time was to be lost. He fired, and the enemy’s foreyard came instantly down. The effect was to throw her up into the wind, in which position she received a raking broadside from the Ruby.

“That’s your doing, True Blue. All at the gun saw it—I know they did.”

“Yes, that was True Blue’s shot, as sure as a gun!” cried Tom Marline. “You shall have as many more as you like, Billy.”

Again True Blue fired, and the enemy’s mizen-topmast came down. This enabled the Ruby to sail round and round her, giving her numerous raking broadsides. Still the gallant Frenchman held out. All this time not a shot had been fired from the cutter, and, greatly to the annoyance of the British sailors, she was seen making off under all sail for Cherbourg.

At the same time, during a pause in the action, when the smoke cleared off, another sail was descried to the northward, three or four leagues off. The sound of the firing had undoubtedly brought her thus far, and there she lay becalmed, unable to get up and join in the fight. Her presence, however, was not welcomed by the Ruby’s crew. She was evidently a frigate. If an enemy, she might prevent the capture of the other Frenchman, and indeed endanger the safety of the Ruby herself. If a friend, they would rather have had the honour of taking their antagonist singlehanded, as they fully expected to do.

As to there being any danger of their being captured, that did not enter the heads of the British tars.

“Come, bear a hand, boys,” said Paul. “We must take this here chap first, and then, if the calm holds for a little longer, we may get all ataunto and be ready for the others. One down, the other come on. That’s it, boys.”

Strange to say, except one man, who had his leg broken by the recoil of a gun he was fighting, not a man on board the Ruby had been hit, though it was evident that numbers of the Frenchmen had been killed, as several were seen thrown overboard. The British began to grow impatient. The French frigate was holding out, probably in expectation of assistance from her consort. The breeze now increased, and the stranger in the offing approached.

“Hurrah!” cried Paul Pringle, “another broadside, lads, and the Monsieurs will haul down their flag.”

Paul’s assertion proved correct. Down came the Frenchman’s colours, after an action which lasted two hours and ten minutes. She proved to be the thirty-eight-gun frigate Réunion, Captain François Adénian.

Numbers of people stood on the French shore watching the combat, and much disappointed they must have been at its termination. The Réunion’s consort, the Sémillante, was seen to make an attempt to come out of harbour to her assistance; but there was not wind sufficient for her to stem a contrary and very strong tide.

“I do wish she’d come!” exclaimed Paul Pringle as he eyed her, while he and his companions were repairing damages, again to make sail. “We’d have her too—I know we should.”

“I thought that I should bring you good luck, Monsieur le Captain,” said the old pilot when the action was over; “I always do.”

“I hope you will stay with us and bring us more, then,” answered Captain Garland.

“With all my heart,” was the answer; and so it was arranged.

Some time after this the Ruby put into Plymouth, from whence she was ordered to proceed to Guernsey in company with the Druid, a thirty-two-gun frigate, and the Eurydice, a twenty-four-gun ship.

A bright lookout was as usual kept. The squadron had got to the distance of about twelve leagues to the northward of the island, when one of the lookouts hailed that two ships were in sight to the westward. Presently two more and a fifth was made out. Whether friends or foes, at first it was difficult to say; but clear glasses were brought to bear on them, and it was declared that they were two fifty-gun ships, two large frigates and a brig, which had crowded all sail in chase.

Many a man might have been daunted by these fearful odds. True British seamen never give in while there is a possibility of escape. Captain Garland called aft the old Guernsey pilot and had a short conversation with him. “Then I’ll do it,” was his remark, and threw out a signal for the Eurydice to make the best of her way under all sail for Guernsey.

Meantime he and the Druid, under easy sail, waited the approach of the enemy. On they came, exulting in their strength, and confident of making prizes of the two British frigates. The latter, nothing daunted, opened their fire on the enemy in a way which must not a little have astonished them.

“Our Captain knows what he is about,” observed Paul Pringle in his usual quiet way, as some of the frigate’s shots were seen to strike the headmost of one of the French ships.

“What! Paul, are we going to take all those big ships?” asked True Blue with much animation. “That will be fine work.”

“As to taking them, Billy, I can’t say,” answered Paul. “It won’t be bad work if we don’t get taken ourselves, do ye see.”

Never, however, did two ships appear in greater jeopardy than did the Ruby and her consort. True Blue observed his Captain. There he stood calm and composed, watching every movement of the enemy, with the old pilot by his side. They were now rapidly approaching Guernsey, and could be seen from the shore, all the neighbouring heights of which were crowded with spectators, eager and anxious witnesses of the unequal contest. Although both the English frigates fired well, they had not as yet succeeded in bringing down any of the Frenchmen’s spars.

Captain Garland now threw out another signal. It was to order the Druid to crowd all sail and make the best of her way for the harbour. Those on board her could scarcely understand his object. It appeared as if he was about to sacrifice himself for the sake of preserving the other two ships. The Captain of the Druid was too good an officer not to obey orders simply because he could not understand their object, or he would have been inclined rather to have gone to the Ruby’s aid, and to have shared her fate, whatever that might have been.

As soon as Captain Garland saw that the Druid was obeying his directions, he boldly hauled up and stood right along the French line, at which the frigate kept up all the time a hot fire. The enemy kept firing away all the while in return; but their gunnery was fortunately none of the best, and but few of their shot had hitherto struck the Ruby.

“Well, what are we going to do now, Paul?” asked True Blue. “Does the Captain intend to try and weather on the Frenchmen, and so get clear?”

“Wait a bit, Billy,” answered his godfather. “You’ll see presently. The Captain means to proceed to Guernsey, and to Guernsey, it’s my opinion, we shall go, in spite of all the Frenchmen may do to try and prevent us.”

On stood the gallant Ruby. The two frigates and brig were passed; then came one of the big ships, then the other. The Eurydice was now close in with the harbour and safe. The Druid was so near that, unless becalmed, there appeared no doubt about her getting in.

“Now, my lads,” cried Captain Garland, “be sharp in all you do!”

The helm was put up, the yards were squared, and on she stood towards a collection of rocky islands, islets, and shoals, apparently to destruction. The never-quiet ocean was sending dense masses of spray and foam over the rocks. The old pilot stood calm by the Captain’s side. The Frenchmen, who had concentrated all their attention on the Ruby and let the other two ships escape, now bore up after them.

On she stood under all sail towards the rocks. The old pilot took his stand in the weather-rigging. The helmsman’s eye was upon him, ready to answer each wave of his hand, or deep-toned sound of his voice. The guns were deserted, and all the crew stood by either the tacks or sheets or braces, or crowded the tops aloft, ready with all possible rapidity to make any alteration in the sails which a shift of wind or change of course might require.

Still the enemy kept firing at the frigate, but their shot fell either altogether short or wide of their mark. The wind increased—the frigate flew on. On either side of her there appeared white foaming seas, dancing up fantastically and wildly, without apparent cause, but which the seamen well knew betokened rocks and shoals. They were aware that they were among the most dangerous reefs on that rock-bound coast.

No one in the ship had ever been there except the curious old pilot. There he stood, as cool and collected as if the ship were sailing in the open sea, with a gentle breeze filling her canvas. The Captain stood near the pilot, and they all knew that they could trust him, and so were content if he trusted the old Guernsey man.

“He knows what he’s about,” observed Paul Pringle to his godson, looking at the pilot. “Mind, Billy, that’s what you must always do. Never attempt to do what you don’t know how to do; but then what I say is, set to work and learn to do all sorts of things. Never throw a chance away. Note all the landmarks as we go along now, and whenever you go into a harbour mark them in the same way.”

“Ay, ay, Paul,” answered Billy; “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all any man can do,” remarked his godfather. “Stick to that, boy, and you’ll do well. But, I say, I wish those Monsieurs would just try and follow us. We might lead them a dance which would leave them on some of these pretty rocks alongside.”

True Blue’s interest in what was going forward was so great that he could scarcely reply to Paul’s remarks. The sea foamed and roared on either side of the ship. Now the water became smoother over a wider surface, now black rocks rose sheer out of the sea as high as the hammock nettings, and then once more there was a bubbling, and hissing, and frothing, betokening concealed dangers, which none but the most experienced of pilots could hope to avoid. Meantime, many an eye was turned towards the French squadron. It was scarcely to be expected that the enemy should be ignorant of the surrounding dangers; still no one would have been sorry if, in their eagerness, they had run themselves on shore.

Suddenly the leading French ship was seen to haul her wind—so suddenly, indeed, that the next almost ran into her, and, as it was, shot so far beyond her that she must have almost grazed the rocks before her yards were braced up, and she was able to stand off shore. In a few minutes more the Ruby ran triumphantly into Guernsey roads, where the Druid and Eurydice had already arrived in safety, while thousands of spectators were looking down and cheering them from the surrounding heights.

“I knew our Captain would do it!” exclaimed Paul, when, the sails being furled and the ship brought to an anchor, he and his messmates were once again below. “There are few things a brave man can’t do when he tries. Our Captain can fight a ship and take care of a ship. What I’ve been saying to Billy is, that we should never give up, however great the odds against us, because, for what we can tell, even at the last moment something or other may turn up in our favour. Mind, Billy, whatever you may think now, you’ll find one of these days that what I tell you is right.”

Chapter Twelve.

The frigate did not remain long at Guernsey, but, with the rest of the squadron, put to sea. She soon separated from them, and stood down Channel to extend her cruise to the distance of a couple of hundred leagues or so to the westward of Cape Clear.

As usual, she was very successful and picked up several prizes. Among the prizes were three large merchantmen and two privateers. The latter, especially, required a considerable number of men to take them home. Captain Garland was unwilling thus to weaken his crew, and yet the prizes were too valuable to abandon. These vessels had just been despatched when a brig was descried from the masthead. Chase was given. She was a fast vessel and well handled, but before night she was come up with. When her Captain saw that he had no longer any hope of escape, he, like a wise man, hove to and hauled down his colours.

She proved to be La Sybille, a French letter of marque, carrying eight guns, twenty-five men, and bound for the French West India Islands with a valuable cargo. The prisoners, with the exception of four, three white men and a black, who were left on board to assist in working her, were removed to the frigate; and Captain Garland, who could not spare any more lieutenants or mates, sent a midshipman and prize crew to take charge of her.

The midshipman’s name was Nott. He was generally called in the mess Johnny Nott. He was as short as his name, but he was a brave, dashing little fellow; but though he had been some time at sea, being very idle, his navigation, at all events, was not as first-rate as he managed to make it appear that it was when he had the honour of dining with his Captain. Captain Garland sent for him and told him that he would spare him two men and a couple of boys, and he expected that with them and the prisoners he would be able to carry the brig safe into Falmouth or Plymouth.

“I shall send one of the quartermasters with you, Pringle. He is a steady man; and you shall have Marline and Freeborn, who is as good as a man, and the boy Hartland: he is steady.”

“May I have Fid, sir, also?” put in Nott, who was always free-spoken and wonderfully at ease with his Captain. “He is such an amusing young dog. He’ll keep the rest alive by his jokes, if he does nothing else.”

“You may take him, Mr Nott; but take care that they don’t get to skylarking and fall overboard,” said the Captain.

“Oh no, sir,” answered the midshipman; “I’ll maintain the strictest discipline, and hope to have the brig safe in harbour in the course of a few days.”

Captain Garland smiled at the air with which Johnny Nott spoke, and, shaking him by the hand, sincerely wished him a prosperous passage.

Meantime the first lieutenant had sent for Paul Pringle, and, knowing how thoroughly he could be trusted, had given him his instructions to look after Mr Nott—in other words, to act as his dry-nurse.

“I need not tell you how to behave, Pringle,” observed the lieutenant. “You must advise him when to shorten sail, and what to do, indeed, under any emergency; and let him, as much as possible, suppose that he is following his own ideas.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Paul, not a little flattered. “I know pretty well how to speak to most of the young gentlemen; I always leave them to fancy that they are telling me what to do. Most young gentlemen nowadays are fond of ‘teaching their grandmothers to suck eggs,’ and I never stop them when they like to do it.”

“All right, then, Pringle,” answered Mr Brine; “we understand each other clearly. Keep order among the boys, and have an eye on the prisoners.”

All arrangements being made, Mr Nott, with his quadrant, book of navigation, and his crew, went on board the prize and took charge of her, instead of the officer who had boarded her when she was captured.

Scarcely had he got on board and made sail than a large ship was seen to the southwest. The frigate signalled the brig to continue on her course, and then stood away in chase of the stranger. Johnny Nott would much have liked to have gone too, for he could not help fancying that the stranger was an enemy, and if so, he knew full well that whatever her size, even should she happen to be a line-of-battle ship, his Captain would very likely bring her to action. Though he dared not follow her, he waited till he guessed that no one on board would be paying him any attention, and then, having persuaded himself that there would be no harm in so doing, hove the brig to, that he might have a better chance of ascertaining what might happen.

He then ordered True Blue to the masthead to watch the proceedings of the stranger. The wind was about north-west; the stranger was steering about east, and had apparently come from the southward. In a little time Billy hailed that she had brailed up her courses.

“Then, sir,” observed Paul, “depend on it she is an enemy.”

“I wonder what size she is? What do you think, Pringle?” asked the midshipman.

“Freeborn can tell better than any of us,” was the reply; and on Billy being hailed, he reported her a heavy frigate or a fifty-gun ship.

“I only hope our bright Ruby won’t find that she has caught a Tartar, then,” said Johnny Nott. “I don’t think that we could be of much use if we were to go and try and help.”

“Never fear, sir,” observed Paul; “our Captain will know how to tackle with her, whatever she is.”

While this conversation was going forward, True Blue hailed that the frigate was again making signals, and on Johnny Nott referring to his book he discovered that it was a reprimand ordering him to make all sail to the eastward. Had he persevered in remaining hove to, he would have been guilty of an act of insubordination, and most reluctantly, therefore, he made sail and stood on his proper course.

When daylight returned the next morning the frigate was nowhere to be seen, and La Sybille continued her solitary course towards England.

The Frenchmen had hitherto behaved in a perfectly orderly, quiet manner, and obeyed cheerfully the orders issued to them. No change, indeed, was exhibited towards their English captors; but they soon began to quarrel among themselves, and were constantly fighting and disputing. If they did not actually proceed to blows, they appeared every instant as if about to do so. Their conduct was reported to Mr Nott.

“No great harm in that,” he remarked. “If they are quarrelling among themselves, they are less likely to combine to play us any tricks.”

Not many hours had passed before, while he was below, one of the Frenchmen was left at the helm, and True Blue, who was forward, saw another come up on deck, and, with a capstan-bar in his hand, make a blow, so it seemed, at the helmsman’s head. He missed it, however, and the bar, descending with full force on the binnacle, smashed it and the compasses within it to pieces. Billy remarked the men. There was a great deal of jabbering, vociferation, and action, but neither of them struck or hurt the other.

As he watched them an idea occurred to him. “I don’t think those fellows did that by chance,” he said to himself. “I will keep an eye on them.”

The noise brought Mr Nott and Paul Pringle on deck.

“A pretty mess you have made, Messieurs,” observed the midshipman, who spoke a sufficient amount of bad French to make himself perfectly understood by them, and this was one of the reasons why he had been selected to command the brig. “If I was to give you four dozen each, or put you in irons, or stop your grog, you’d only get what you deserve. Now, go and find another compass and put the binnacle to rights. You Frenchmen are handy at that sort of thing.”

The men slunk off as if very much ashamed of themselves, and Paul Pringle took the helm. True Blue, however, watched them, and he was certain that there was a laugh in their eyes, giving evidence that they were well content with what they had done. When they went below also, they seemed to be on perfectly good terms with each other.

On search being made, no compass whatever was to be found.

“I thought that I had observed, when I first came on board, a spare compass and boat compass,” observed Mr Nott.

But the Frenchmen, on being interrogated, all declared that they were not aware that there were any others, and said that if there were, they were private property, and that the Captain had taken them with him. The other Frenchmen appeared to be very angry at what their countrymen had done, and did their best to ingratiate themselves with Mr Nott. The difficulty was now to know how to steer. The midshipman’s knowledge of navigation was put to a severe test. While the sky was clear, either by night or by day, it was tolerably easy to steer more or less to the eastward; but whether they should hit the chops of the Channel or run on shore on the coast of Ireland or France, or the Scilly Islands, it was impossible to say.

“We must do our best, sir, and trust in Providence,” observed Paul Pringle to the young officer. “Only there’s one thing I’d do—I’d rather steer to the nor’ard than the south’ard of our course, so as to avoid the chance of running ashore on the Frenchman’s coast. Of all the places I should hate most it would be a French prison.”

True Blue was certainly not of a suspicious disposition, but he could not help watching the Frenchmen. He whispered his ideas also to Harry and Tim Fid, who agreed to keep a watchful eye on the prisoners. Little did the Frenchmen think how narrowly all their proceedings were noted. Fid soon remarked that when either of the Frenchmen was at the helm, one of the others was constantly going to a chest in the forepeak and looking steadily into it. His curiosity was therefore aroused to ascertain what it was they went to look at. He reflected how he could discover this without being seen.

Some of the crew slept in the bunks or standing bed-places arranged along the sides of the vessel, but others in hammocks. The hammocks were, however, not sent up on deck every day as they are on board of a man-of-war. One of these hung over the Frenchmen’s chests, and into it Tim stowed himself away, making the lower surface smooth with the blankets, so that the form of his body should not be observed. A slight slit in the canvas enabled him to breathe and to look down below him. Poor Fid had to watch a considerable time, however, and felt sadly cramped and almost stifled without being the wiser for all the trouble he had taken. The Frenchmen were there; but first Tom Marline came below, and then Hartland, and then the black; and the Frenchmen sat on the lockers cutting out beef bones into various shapes and polishing them.

At last all but one man went on deck, and then he jumped up, and instantly going to the chest opened it; and then Tim saw clearly a compass, and, moreover, that the brig was steering a course considerably to the southward of east. The Frenchman then put his head up through the fore-hatchway, took a look round, and then, again diving into the forepeak, had another glance at the compass.

“That’s it,” thought Tim; “True Blue is right. The Frenchmen intend to run us near their own coast and then rise on us, or they hope to fall in with one of their own cruisers and be retaken. Small blame to them.”

The thread of his soliloquy was interrupted by his observing the Frenchman go to a chest on the opposite side, which, when opened, he saw was full of arms, cutlasses, long knives, and pistols. The man sat down by the side of it, and deliberately began to load one after the other, and then to arrange the knives and dirks, so that they could in an instant be drawn out for use.

“Ho, ho!” thought Tim; “that’s your plan, is it? Two can play at that game, we will show you!”

Fid was now very anxious to get out of his hiding-place, and to go and tell True Blue what he had seen. The Frenchman, however, after he had made all his arrangements, put a brace of pistols into his pocket and stuck a dirk into his belt, concealed by his jacket, sat down on a locker, and, with the greatest apparent unconcern, pursued his usual occupation of bone-cutting.

Fid grew more and more impatient. He waited some time longer, then he saw the man prick up his ears and listen eagerly. Presently there was the sound of a scuffle on deck. The Frenchman sprang up the ladder through the fore-hatch-way. As he did so a key fell from his pocket. The moment he was gone, Fid jumped out of his hiding-place, picked up the key, applied it to the chest which contained the arms—the lid flew open. He drew out several brace of pistols and a bundle of dirks. He stuck as many of both into his belt and pockets as he could carry, and hid the others in the hammock in which he had been concealed, while the key he also hid away. All was done as quick as lightning. Then, with a pistol in one hand and a dirk in the other, he followed the Frenchman up the hatchway.

As he did so he chanced to cast his eye aloft, when he saw True Blue in the fore-rigging. He signed to him to come on deck. Billy saw him, and slid down rapidly by the foretop-mast-stay. On looking aft they saw Hartland and Mr Nott stretched on the deck, apparently lifeless, while the three Frenchmen, with the black, were making a furious attack on Tom Marline, who had the helm, while Paul Pringle stood by defending him with a boat’s stretcher. Neither Pringle nor Marline had arms, while two of the Frenchmen and the black had dirks, and the third Frenchman, as Fid knew, had pistols. Fid immediately handed a brace of pistols and a dirk to True Blue, and together they rushed aft. Paul saw them coming, but the Frenchmen did not. One of them had cocked his pistol, and was taking a deliberate aim at Paul, when True Blue, who at that instant had reached the quarterdeck, lifted his arm and fired.

The Frenchman staggered a few paces, fired his pistol in the air, and then fell to the deck. To prevent his companions from seizing his weapons, Fid drew them from his pocket and bolted off with them round the deck. Before, however, the smoke of the pistol which True Blue had fired had cleared off, he had sprung to the side of Paul Pringle and handed him the remaining pistol and a dirk. Paul on this sprang on the Frenchmen.

The black was the first to fly. The other two men, finding themselves clearly overmatched, retreated forward and gained the fore-hatchway. It was blowing fresh, so that Marline was afraid if he left the wheel the brig would broach to. Consequently only Paul and True Blue pursued the Frenchmen. One of them leaped down the fore-hatchway. As he did so a pistol-shot was heard, and Fid immediately afterwards appeared at the same place, exclaiming:

“I’ve done for the fellow—settle the other two!”

Fid held a pistol in his hand. The black saw it, and sprang at the boy to seize it; but True Blue, who saw it also, was too quick for him, and had got hold of it just before the negro reached the spot. Fid sprang out of his way; and so eager had he been, that he pitched head-forward down the hatchway.

The last Frenchman attempted to defend himself; but when he saw Paul and the two lads with arms in their hands approaching him, while his companions were unable to assist him, he knew that resistance was useless and cried out for quarter.

“You don’t deserve it, Monsieur Crapaud,” answered Paul; “but I’m not the fellow to take a man’s life in cold blood. Howsomdever, there’s one thing I’ll take, and that is, good care you don’t attempt to play us such a trick again. Here, Billy, hand me that coil of rope. We’ll keep him out of harm for the present.”

Saying this, while True Blue stood by presenting a pistol at the prisoner’s head, Paul proceeded to lash his arms and legs, and to secure him to one of the guns.

“Well done, mate!” exclaimed Tom Marline from aft. “And now just come and have a look at Mr Nott. I think that he’s coming to.”

“And I do hope that Harry isn’t killed either!” cried Fid. “He’s breathing, and that’s more than dead men can do.”

In a little time both Mr Midshipman Nott and the boy Hartland came to themselves, and sat up rubbing their eyes, as if trying to understand what had occurred. The moment the truth flashed on Mr Nott’s mind, he sprang to his feet, and, seizing a stretcher, the nearest weapon he could lay hold of, stood on the defensive, looking about for an enemy.

He was much relieved in his mind when he saw one of the Frenchmen lying not far off dead on the deck, and another sitting bound, where Paul and True Blue had placed him, between the guns.

“What! have we come off victorious in the struggle?” he exclaimed, turning to Marline.

“Yes, sir,” answered the seaman, “we’ve been and drubbed the Monsieurs; but there are still two on ’em below kicking up a bobbery. If you’ll take the helm, sir, I’ll go and help Pringle to make them fast.”

“No, no,” answered the midshipman somewhat indignantly, as if his courage or strength had been called in question. “I can do that. You stay at the helm.”

When the Frenchman and the black had jumped down into the forepeak, Tim Fid had very wisely clapped the hatch on, so that they were left in darkness, and were also unable to return again on deck. Pringle was on the point of taking off the hatch to secure the two men when the midshipman got forward.

“Very glad, sir, to see you all to rights,” said Paul, looking up. “I suppose that you’ll wish us to get hold of the two fellows down below?”

“By all means. I’ll hail them and advise them to surrender at discretion.”

The hatch was taken off, and Mr Nott explained, as well as his limited knowledge of French would allow, that all their chance of success was gone. Only the black man answered. Mr Nott ordered him to come up.

“L’autre est mort,” (the other is dead), said he as he made his appearance, looking very much frightened.

“He is as treacherous as the rest; it will not do to let him be at liberty,” said Mr Nott. “It was he who knocked me down and began the mutiny.”

The black was accordingly lashed to a gun on the opposite side of the deck, facing his companion.

On going below they found that the Frenchman whom Fid had shot was not dead, having only been stunned by the fall. He would, however, very shortly have bled to death had they not bound up his wound. In mercy to the poor wretch, they placed him in a bunk, but did not tell him that either of his companions had escaped.

“Ah, I deserve my fate!” he observed to Mr Nott. “Had we succeeded, we should have thrown you all overboard and carried the vessel into a French port. There is a large sum of money on board stowed away below the after-lockers. It escaped the vigilance of the officers who examined the vessel. We knew of it, and for its sake we intended to get rid of you, that we might obtain possession of the whole.”

“Much obliged for your kind intentions,” answered Johnny, laughing. “The dollars we’ll look after, and you will consider yourself a prisoner in your berth till I give you leave to get out of it. If you put your head above the hatchway, you’ll be shot. That is an understood thing between us.”

The Frenchman could only make a grimace as a sign of his acquiescence.

“I’m in earnest, remember!” said Mr Nott as he climbed up the ladder on deck.

Fid now reported all that he had done, and he and True Blue received the praise from their young commander which they so fully merited. The compass was got up on deck and shipped in the binnacle, and the arms were carried aft and placed in the cabin. The other chests belonging to the Frenchmen were broken open; but nothing particular was found in them.

When all these arrangements were made, the officer and his small crew assembled on deck to hold a council of war.

“The first thing we had better do, sir, is to shorten sail, seeing how shorthanded we are,” observed Paul Pringle. “We couldn’t do it in a hurry, and if it comes on to blow, our spars and sails may be carried away before we know where we are.”

This advice was too good to be neglected. “Then, sir, as these Frenchmen have been steering to the southward and east whenever they have had the helm, oughtn’t we to steer so much to the nor’ard to make up for the distance we have run out of our course?” observed True Blue with much modesty.

“Capital idea, Freeborn!” exclaimed the midshipman with a patronising air. “You’ve a very good notion of navigation; we’ll do it.”

Mr Nott now took the helm, while the crew went aloft to furl the lighter canvas and to take a reef in the topsails. While True Blue was on his way up to hand the main-royal, his eye fell on a vessel following directly in the wake of the brig, which might have been seen long before had not they all been so fully occupied. He hailed Mr Nott and pointed her out.

The midshipman, who, from being at the helm, could not at the same time take a steady look at her, inquired what she was like. “A schooner, sir, with a wide spread of canvas,” answered True Blue. “She seems to be coming up fast with us.”

“All hands come down on deck!” shouted Mr Nott. He then asked Paul what he thought of the stranger.

“She does not look like an English craft, and may be an enemy—a privateer probably,” was the answer. “I suppose, sir, you’ll think fit to hold on and try and get away from her?” continued Paul. “It will soon be growing dark, and if the weather becomes thick, as it promises to do, we may alter our course without being discovered.”

“Yes, exactly—that is just my idea,” observed Mr Nott. “We could not have hit upon a better.”

The sail was consequently not taken off the brig, which, under other circumstances, it ought to have been; and on she stood, the breeze gradually increasing, and the weather becoming more and more unsettled. Mr Nott watched the schooner. It was very clear that she was gaining on the brig.

“It is very probable that we shall have to fight, after all,” he said to himself. “So, as the Captain always makes a speech to the crew before a battle is begun, I think I ought to do so.”

Accordingly, calling all hands aft, he cleared his throat and began. “My lads,” he said, imitating as well as he could the tone and manner of Captain Garland, “we shall very likely have to fight that fellow astern of us. You’ll do your duty like true Britons, I know you will—you always do. We will take her if we can. If not, we’ll try to get away from her; but if we cannot do either, we’ll blow up the brig and go down with our colours flying. I don’t think that it matters much which. Both are equally glorious modes of proceeding.”

True Blue was very much taken with the speech, and told Harry Hartland that it was just what he thought they ought to do; but Tim Fid said that he hadn’t made up his mind which he should prefer. Blowing up was very fine to look at, but going down must be a very disagreeable sensation.

Paul, meantime, took off his hat to reply. “As you wish it, Mr Nott, we’ll fight the brig to the last, and maybe we shall knock away some of her spars and get off. I don’t think we shall have much chance of taking her, and as to blowing up or going down with our colours flying, if the enemy send their shot through her sides, between wind and water, and won’t take us on board, we can’t help ourselves; but perhaps, sir, you’ll just think over the matter about blowing up. It would be like throwing our best chance away. I for one don’t wish to see the inside of a French prison; but you know, sir, even if we are taken, we may have a chance of being retaken before we get into a French port, or of escaping even when we are there. Now, if we blow ourselves up into the air, we shall have no chance of either.”

“Very true, Pringle, very true,” answered the midshipman; “I did not think of that. Well, we won’t blow ourselves up; and if we find our brig sinking, we’ll strike our flag and yield. There’ll be no dishonour in doing that, I hope. Several brave officers have been obliged to strike to a superior force at times; so it will be all proper, but it’s what the Frenchmen are more accustomed to do than we are.”

There was no sun visible, so Mr Nott looked at his watch and found that there would be scarcely more than an hour of daylight.

“If we can but keep ahead, we shall do,” he remarked.

Paul agreed with him in this, but suggested that, by cutting away the stern-boat, and by making two temporary ports in her stern, they might fight a couple of long brass guns which they had found on board. This idea was immediately adopted, and all hands set to work to get the guns and tackle ready, while Paul, with an axe, soon made the required ports. He was not very particular as to their appearance. With the aid of the timber-heads, there were already a sufficient number of ringbolts to enable them to work the tackles.

All this time the schooner was gaining on them. Scarcely were these two guns fitted and loaded than the schooner yawed, and a shot came skipping along the water and disappeared close under their counter.

“Not badly aimed,” observed True Blue, “but the range is too great. Paul, don’t you think that these long guns would carry farther?”

“Wait a bit, Billy,” answered Paul; “we haven’t much powder or many shot to spare. We won’t throw away either till she gets a little nearer. Then you shall have it all your own way.”

True Blue, with this promise, was eager for the Frenchman to get nearer. There had been no doubt that such the stranger was. Her own colours could not be seen; but, to make sure, Mr Nott first hoisted a French flag. No notice was taken of this. Then he hoisted the English ensign over the French, and immediately the stranger yawed and fired a bow-chaser.

“You’d think it well to mystify them a little, sir,” observed Paul. “We should do that if we hoisted the French flag over the English.”

This was done, and for some time no other shot was fired. Still the stranger seemed to be not altogether satisfied. The breeze was freshening all this time, and at length it became evident that the brig was carrying much more canvas than was necessary, unless she was trying to get away from the schooner. The stranger seemed to think so, at all events, and without yawing fired a shot as a signal to the chase to heave-to.

This was what no one but the prisoners had the slightest wish to do; and so, as it was now getting dark, both flags were hauled down and not again hoisted.

“Now, Billy,” said Paul, “let us see, my boy, what you can do.”

True Blue was in his glory. He had a gun almost entirely to himself. Tim Fid acted the part of powder-monkey; while he and Hartland had charge of one gun, and Mr Nott, helped by Paul, worked the other. Paul, indeed, stepped from gun to gun as his services were required. Now they set to work in right earnest and began to blaze away as hard as they could, while Tom Marline stood at the helm and steered the flying brig. He had no easy work either, for, with the immense press of canvas she had on her and the strong breeze, it was with difficulty he could keep her on her course.

True Blue was delighted to find that his shot, at all events, reached the enemy.

“Paul, Paul, that shot hit her bows—I saw the splinters fly from them!” he exclaimed while he and Harry were again loading.

“All right,” answered Paul, who likewise saw the effect of the shot. “Keep on like that, and you’ll soon bring down some of the chap’s spars.”

Meantime, Mr Nott was working away manfully with his gun. He felt rather vexed to think that a ship’s boy was a better shot than himself; only just then, as he wished to preserve the brig, he was thankful to any one who could aid in accomplishing that object. Now and then the schooner fired; but as at each time, in order to do so, she had to yaw and then keep away, she fired much less frequently than the brig. The Frenchmen probably also judged that, as they were rapidly coming up with the chase, it was not worth while to throw their shot away. As the darkness increased, the wind got up more and more, and so did the sea, and all around looked very gloomy and threatening.

“We must shorten sail, sir!” exclaimed Tom Marline at last, who had been looking up ever and anon at the bending, quivering spars.

“Never mind, my man,” said Johnny Nott with the greatest coolness, “the brig will do that for herself better than we can. We have enough to do just now to try and wing the enemy.”

There seemed a fair chance of their doing this. The guns were excellent, and True Blue’s gunnery was first-rate. But as the brig tumbled about and pitched more and more, he found greater difficulty in taking aim. Still he persevered, and so did Mr Nott; and as it was far too dark for them to see the effects of their shot, they both hoped that they were doing a great deal of damage. One thing concerned Paul exceedingly. He feared that, the instant they hauled their wind and got out of their previous course, the masts would go over the side.

Still True Blue, regardless of everything else, kept firing away as fast as ever. What did he care what might happen besides just then? There was a fine brass gun he had been ordered to serve, and there was the enemy. The scud was flying rapidly overhead, the wind howled, the thunder roared, and flash after flash burst forth from the sky, mocking the tiny light of the British guns. The whole ocean was of a dark slaty hue, with white, hissing, foaming crests dancing up as far as the eye could reach, while many came hissing up and almost leaped on board. The brig went tearing along, her masts bending and writhing as if they were about to be torn out of her. Suddenly there was a terrific crash, and both the tall masts leant over and went by the board. Fortunately they fell forward and none of the party was hurt.

“Well, we have shortened sail with a vengeance!” cried the midshipman, even at that moment unable to restrain a joke, though he felt in no joking mood. “Never mind the guns now. Let us clear the wreck. Perhaps the Frenchman may pass us in the dark.”

This was a wise thought, as it was the best thing that could be done. With axes and knives they set energetically to work to cut the ropes which kept the masts and spars thumping against the vessel’s sides like battering-rams.

While thus engaged, True Blue exclaimed:

“See, see!—what is that?”

All hands looked up. The dark outline of the schooner was visible flying by them. Just then a vivid flash of lightning darted from the sky. There was a loud crackling noise heard even amid the raging of the rising tempest; the flame ran down the schooner’s mainmast. Shrieks reached their ears; there was a loud roar like a single clap of thunder without an echo; the whole dark mass seemed to rise in the air, and here and there dark spots could be seen, and splashes could be heard close to the vessel, and for a few seconds flames burst forth from where the schooner had been seen; but in an instant they disappeared and not a trace of her could be discovered. The dismantled brig floated alone, surrounded by darkness on the wild tumultuous ocean.

Chapter Thirteen.

The dismasted brig lay tumbling about, utterly helpless. Neither moon nor stars were visible. The seas came roaring up around her, now throwing her on one side, now on the other. Her stern-boat had already been cut adrift.

Not long after the disappearance of the schooner, a sea struck her quarter and carried away one of the boats on that side, and at the next roll the one on the opposite quarter went.

Mr Nott, with Paul and Marline, and the three boys, were clustered aft.

“Paul,” observed True Blue, “the Frenchman and black can’t play us any tricks now. They run a great chance of being drowned where they are; couldn’t we cast them loose and let them come aft here?”

“Right, Billy,” answered Paul. “We should be merciful even to our enemies. I had forgotten them.”

Mr Nott offering no objection, Paul and True Blue worked their way to the waist, where the two men sat bound. Paul loosened the Frenchman, and True Blue took out his knife and cut the lashings which bound the black; and then, assisting him up on his legs, pointed aft, and by a push in that direction intimated that he had better get there as soon as possible.

Billy then bethought him of the wounded prisoner in the dark damp forepeak, all alone, expecting every instant to be his last. “I shouldn’t like to be left thus,” he thought; “I’ll go and see what I can do for him.”

Without, therefore, telling Paul what he was going to do, he worked his way gradually forward, grasping tightly on by the belaying-pins and cleats made fast to the bulwarks.

Just as he got close to the fore-hatch, he saw rolling up, just ahead of the vessel, what looked like a huge black mountain with a snowy top. It was a vast sea appearing still larger in the darkness. On it rolled, roaring above the bows of the brig, and then with a terrific crash down it came on her deck, threatening to swamp her and sweeping everything before it.

True Blue’s foot had been pressing against a ringbolt: a rope was made fast to it. He threw himself flat down, grasping the ring with one hand and making several turns with the rope round the other. He felt the breath almost pressed out of his body with the weight of water rushing above him; and then he fancied that the vessel herself was going down and would never rise again.

The rush and the roaring sound of water passed on. He felt the bows of the brig rise once more; he lifted himself up on his knees and looked over his shoulder. The sea had made a clean sweep, and had carried away the caboose, the boats on the booms, and every spar remaining on deck, besides, as it appeared to him, a considerable portion of the larboard bulwarks.

His anxiety was for his shipmates. How had they withstood the rush of waters? He shouted; but though his voice was loud and shrill, the howling of the tempest and the dash of the sea were louder. He tried to penetrate the darkness, but he could distinguish nothing beyond half the length of the ship. His heart sank lower than it had ever done before at the thought that his faithful kind guardian might be torn from him for ever.

Having started to visit the wounded Frenchman, he wished to do so before he tried to find his way aft again to ascertain the state of the case. He lifted the hatch off and dived below. All was dark. There were no means of procuring a light in the place.

“I say, Monsieur Frenchman, how are you?” he began, groping his way towards the bunk where the prisoner lay.

A groan showed that the man was not dead. True Blue remembered that there was some food in one of the lockers. Taking some sausages and biscuit, he put them into the man’s hand. “Here, eat; you’re hungry, I daresay.”

“Merci! merci! de l’eau-de-vie, je vous prie, donnez-moi de l’eau-de-vie.”

Billy, on searching about, had found a can with a little water at the bottom of it, and a flask of spirits; so, guessing what the man wanted, he poured some of the spirits into the can and gave it to him.

The draught must have been very refreshing, for the Frenchman’s expression of gratitude knew no limits. He made True Blue understand that he had better take something himself. This, as he was very hungry, he was nothing loth to do; but he had not eaten much, and had only taken one pull at the grog can when he recollected his friends. He felt that he could eat nothing more until he had ascertained their fate.

“If they are alive, they’ll want to eat,” he said to himself. “They can’t be gone—no, no; I won’t believe it.”

So he filled his pockets with as many sausages and as much biscuit as they could carry, and, shaking the Frenchman by the hand to show that he would not be forgotten, he ascended the ladder, closed the fore-hatch behind him, and began his perilous journey towards the stern. The sea on one side, he discovered, had made so complete a wreck, that he knew, should he slip, there would be nothing to prevent his going overboard.

The greatest caution therefore was necessary. He could feel the ringbolts, but he could not see them, or indeed any object by which to secure himself. On hands and knees he crept on, feeling his way. He had got as far as the main hatchway when he saw another sea rising. He clung, as before, to a ringbolt. Over came the water with a furious rush, which would have carried any one unprepared for it away. He felt his arm strained to the utmost; still he had no notion of letting go. When the sea had passed over, the vessel was steadier for an instant than she had been. He took the opportunity to make a bold rush to the nearest part of the bulwarks remaining entire. He now got aft with less difficulty. His heart felt lighter when he saw the group he expected standing there; but Paul didn’t come forward to welcome him. Instead, he heard Marline’s voice say, “Rouse up, Pringle; rouse up, mate—the boy is safe.”

True Blue was in an instant kneeling down by the side of his guardian. “I am here, Paul, I am here; Billy True Blue all right, godfather!” he exclaimed, putting his mouth to Paul’s ear.

“What has happened? Is he hurt?” he asked.

“He has hurt his side and ribs, and we are afraid he has broken his leg,” answered Marline. “We all thought that you were gone—washed clean away, boy; but he wouldn’t believe it, and started off to look for you, when a sea took him and washed him back in the state you now see him. He was nearly carried overboard, and we have had hard work to save him.”

True Blue forgot everything else but the state of his friend, till at length Paul came to himself and comprehended what had occurred. The knowledge that his godson was safe seemed to revive him. Billy then remembered the provisions he had got in his pocket, and served them out among his companions, the two prisoners getting an equal share.

Dawn came at last, and presented a fearful scene of wreck and confusion: the dark-green seas were rising up on every side, topped with foam, which came down in showers on the deck, blown off by the fierce wind; while the lately trim brig lay shattered and dismantled, and, too evidently, far deeper in the water than she had been before the gale.

Not a boat remained; there were not even the means of making a raft.

“But what can we do, Paul?” asked True Blue, thinking how sad it was that his fine old friend should thus ingloriously lose his life. Paul smiled as he answered:

“Trust in Providence, boy. That’s the best sheet-anchor a seaman can hold to when he’s done his duty and can do no more. There are others as badly off as we are, depend on that.”

When his godfather had ceased speaking, True Blue cast his eye around in the faint hope that some aid might possibly be at hand. As he did so, he saw that several pieces of wreck were floating round the brig. As the light increased, he thought he saw the form of a man on one of them. He looked again; he pointed the spar out to the rest: they were of the same opinion. The man was alive, too. He saw the wreck, he waved to them, he turned his face with a look imploring assistance.

“Here, Tom, make this rope fast round me; I think that I can reach that poor fellow. The next send of the sea will bring him close alongside.”

Though True Blue was a first-rate swimmer for his age, Marline demurred and appealed to Pringle.

“He is only a Frenchman and an enemy, after all,” argued Marline.

“He’s a fellow-creature, Tom,” answered True Blue. “Here, make fast the rope. I am sure I can save him.”

“Will you let him go, Paul?” asked Tom as a last resource.

Paul raised himself on his arm.

“If the lad thinks it’s his duty to try and save the man, yes,” he answered firmly. “If he loses his life, it will be just as a true British sailor should wish to lose it. Go, boy; Heaven preserve you.”

There was an unusual tone of solemnity and dignity in the way Paul spoke as he grasped his godson’s hand. The rope had by this time been properly adjusted. The piece of wreck with the man on it was drifting nearer and nearer. The man on it again waved his hand. True Blue waved his in return. “He is alive!—he is alive!” he shouted.

“If go you must, now is your time,” shouted Tom.

True Blue leaped off the deck into the raging sea. Boldly he struck out. Down came a sea thundering towards him, hurling the spar with it. There was a shriek of horror: all on board thought he was lost. He had only dived to avoid the sea. Then up again he was on the other side, clinging on to the spar, with his knife in his mouth, ready to cut the lashings which secured the stranger to it. It was done in a moment. He had him tight round the waist.

The stranger is now seen to be a boy not bigger than himself. This makes his task easier. The spar drifts away; the two are in the water together.

Tom and Mr Nott, and the other boys, and the Frenchman and the black, haul away, and, with some severe bruises, rescuer and rescued are safely brought on deck.

“It’s Sir Henry, I do believe!” shouted Tom, hauling in the rope.

“Why, Elmore, my dear fellow, is it you?” exclaimed Johnny Nott, taking the hand of the lad, who, with True Blue, had been dragged aft and placed in as safe a spot as the deck afforded. “We thought you were a Frenchman.”

“I scarcely know who I am. I know that I have to thank Freeborn for my preservation,” answered the young baronet.

He took True Blue’s hand.

“I do thank you heartily, Freeborn,” he said with much emotion.

The excitement of the first minutes of his wonderful preservation over, young Elmore felt the effects of the exposure to which he had been subjected so long, and sank almost helpless on the deck.

“He wants food,” said Tom. “I wish that we had some.” True Blue instantly volunteered to try and go and get it; but of this the rest would not hear.

Marline said he would go; but he was wanted to look after the rest, and take care of poor Pringle, who was utterly unable to help himself. Neither the Frenchman nor the black volunteered to go. The truth was, they dared not face the danger.

“I’ll go if I may!” exclaimed Tim Fid. “If I am not strong, I’m little, and a shrimp can swim where a big fish would be knocked to pieces.”

“Stay, though,” said True Blue. “Here, make fast the rope round you. If you are washed away, we can haul you in by it. It served me a good turn, it will now serve you one.”

“A good thought,” said Tim, fastening the rope round his waist, and away he went. He worked his way forward, as, True Blue had done; but just as he was in the middle of the waist, a sea swept the deck, and would have carried him off had it not been for the rope round him.

He was hauled back not a little bruised. Still he insisted on making another attempt. Having kicked off his shoes, away he went. The deck was clearer than usual of water. He ran and leaped along, and before another sea came had reached the fore-hatch. His first care was to make the rope fast to the windlass. Then he slipped off the hatch and descended. He soon again appeared, and succeeded in reaching the after part of the vessel with a good supply of food and a can.

“There,” he said, “that’s full of honest grog; it will do all hands good. But, I say, we must try and get the poor Frenchman up out of his bunk. He’ll be drowned in it if we don’t in a short time.”

It was agreed that the Frenchman and the black ought to perform the duty; but it was not till they had taken several pulls at the grog can that they seemed to understand what was required of them. Even then Mr Nott had to show a pistol, and hint that they should not remain where they were if they did not go and help the wounded man.

The rope which Fid secured made the task comparatively, easy. Led by the little fellow himself, at last they set off. When they got below, they found so much water that the poor fellow was very nearly washed out of his berth. They managed, however, to get him on deck. To carry him aft, however, was the most difficult part of their task. As it was, the Frenchman, in his anxiety to take care of himself, let go his hold of his wounded countryman; and had it not been for Fid and the black, he would have been washed overboard.

At length they reached the stern in safety. The account Fid gave, however, of the quantity of water below, was truly appalling. They could not hope that the brig could swim many hours longer, and should she go down, they had nothing on which to float; the boats were gone, not a spar remained. There were the hatches, certainly; but there would scarcely be time to construct a raft out of them.

Mr Nott had, during this time, been attending to his messmate. It was some time before young Elmore again revived.

Nott was curious to know how his messmate had come to be on board the schooner which had chased them.

“I will tell you in a few words,” said Elmore. “We had not parted company with the frigate many hours before a strange sail hove in sight. As I knew that we could gain but little by fighting should the stranger prove an enemy, we did our best to run away. The prize, however, sailed badly, and the stranger, which turned out to be a large schooner, sailed remarkably well. We had a couple of guns; so we fired away with them as long as we could till she ranged up alongside, when a number of men leaped on our decks and we were obliged to give in. I was carried on board the schooner; but the rest of the men were left on board the brig to work her, so that I hope that their lives may have been preserved. She was a privateer out of Saint Malo. Your determined attempt to escape excited their anger to the highest degree; and at the very moment that the vessel was struck by lightning, from the effects of which she foundered, they were swearing vengeance against you, wherever you might be. Their terrific shrieks and cries, as one after the other they were overwhelmed by the waves, made my heart sink within me. Still I determined not to yield as long as my strength endured, and I struck out for dear life. I soon found myself close to a shattered spar, to which was attached a quantity of rigging. I climbed up and lashed myself securely to it. Thus I passed the night. I more than once thought I saw the dismantled brig; and you may fancy my joy when I caught sight of her at dawn. Still I scarcely expected that anybody on board would be able to render me assistance; and when I saw that all her boats were gone, I almost gave up hope. I have not thanked Freeborn as I wish; but I have those at home who will thank him still more, if we are allowed to reach dry land, and I am sure our Captain will thank him too.”

While the lads had been talking, the appearance of the sky gave evident signs that the gale was breaking. Still the sea ran very high, and the waterlogged wreck laboured in a way which made it doubtful whether each plunge she made would not prove her last. She sunk lower and lower, and it was very evident that in a short time no part of her deck would be tenable. Anxiously, therefore, all eyes were looking out for a sail. Each time that the brig rose to the top of a sea, they all looked out on every side, in the hope of catching a glimpse of some approaching vessel; and blank was the feeling when she again sunk down into the deep trough and they knew that no help was near.

Suddenly True Blue shouted out, “A sail! a sail!—she is standing towards us!” He had seen her before, but was uncertain which way she was steering, and he had not forgotten a caution given to him by Paul—never to raise hopes when there is a likelihood of their being disappointed.

The sea had for some time been decreasing; but there was still so much that a boat would run considerable risk in boarding the wreck. It was soon proved that True Blue was right. The stranger was steering towards them. On she came. She was a brig, and showed English colours.

A cheer rose from the deck of the waterlogged vessel. The brig came down in gallant style; but she gave evident signs that she also had been battling with the gale. Her bulwarks were shattered, and not a boat was to be seen on board. Her flag showed her to be a packet. A fine-looking man stood in the main-rigging.

The midshipmen shouted, “We are going down, we fear. Can you render assistance?”

“Ay, ay—that I will!” answered the master of the packet. “I will run alongside you. Stand by to leap on board!”

The least experienced of the party saw the great risk the packet was running by this proceeding; for a send of the sea might easily have driven the wreck against her and stove in her upper works. This consideration did not deter the gallant sailor from his act of mercy. He made a signal as he approached, that he would pass the wreck on the larboard quarter. The Frenchman and the black were told that they must help their wounded shipmate. Tom and True Blue begged that they might take charge of Paul, while the rest were to leap on board the instant the vessels’ sides touched. The midshipmen and the two boys wanted to stay and help Paul, but he would not hear of this.

“No, no,” he answered; “if we talk about it, no one will be saved; and if I am left on board, I shall be no worse off than we all have been till now.”

The packet tacked. Now she stood down towards the wreck. The sides of the two vessels touched. The midshipmen and two boys leaped on board. So did the Frenchman and the black; they made a pretence of helping their comrade, it seemed. They placed him on the bulwarks of the wreck, and then, when safe themselves, they were about to regain their hold of him; but the poor wretch lost his balance, and with a cry of horror fell between the two vessels. The two men looked over the side with stupid dismay, abusing each other; but their unfortunate comrade had sunk for ever from their sight.

Meanwhile Tom and True Blue had made an attempt to lift Paul on board the packet. Had her crew known his condition, they probably would have been ready to render assistance; as it was, his two friends, fearful of letting him slip between the two vessels, lost the moment as the brig glided by, and all three were left on the sinking wreck.

“Why have you done this?” said Paul when he saw that the packet had shot ahead. “You should have left me, boys.”

“Left you, Paul!” exclaimed True Blue with an emotion he rarely exhibited. “How can you say that? Please Heaven, we’ll save you yet.”

There was no necessity for hailing the packet. They knew well that the two midshipmen would make every effort in their power to render them assistance. Once more the brig tacked and stood towards them; but the position of the wreck had changed, and it was impossible to run alongside.

Again and again the gallant Captain of the packet tried the manoeuvre without success. At last, passing close to them, he shouted, “Lads, I will heave you ropes; you must make yourselves fast to them and jump overboard: it’s your only chance.”

“Tom, you must do it!” said True Blue, turning to Marline. “It would kill Paul; I’ll stay by him. We shall be taken off when the weather moderates; and if not, I’m ready to go down with him.”

Paul heard this. “True Blue, I’m your guardian, and you must obey me!” he said almost sternly. “The ducking won’t hurt me more than others. Maybe it may do me good. So, I say, make the rope fast round me, and help me overboard when you two go, and I shall not be the worse for it.”

Thus commanded, True Blue could no longer refuse obedience. Down came the packet towards them. The ropes were hove on board.

“Tom, you can’t swim—go by yourself. I’ll stay by Paul!” exclaimed True Blue as he was securing the rope. “Help me to launch him first. Away, now!”

Paul was lowered into the water, True Blue keeping tight hold of the rope just at his waist with his left hand, while he struck out with his right. Thus the two together were drawn through the foaming sea towards the packet. Arrived at the vessel’s side, True Blue was of the greatest service to Paul in protecting him from the blows he would otherwise have received by the sea driving him against it.

Right hearty was the welcome they received from all hands, especially from the gallant commander, Captain Jones.

Scarcely had the packet got a hundred fathoms from the brig when she was seen to make a plunge forward. The two midshipmen were watching her, expecting to see her rise again. They rubbed their eyes. Another sea rolled over the spot where she had been, but no sign of her was there.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Chesterfield packet was bound from Halifax to Falmouth. Fortunately among the passengers was a surgeon, who was able to attend to Paul’s hurts. He set his leg, which was really broken, as were one or more of his ribs.

The passengers, when they heard from Sir Henry Elmore and Johnny Nott of True Blue’s gallantry, were very anxious to have him into the cabin to talk to him, and to hear an account of his adventures. The young midshipmen, knowing instinctively that he would not like this, did not back the passengers’ frequent messages to him; besides, nothing would induce him to leave the side of his godfather, except when the doctor sent him on deck to take some fresh air.

A strange sail was seen on the starboard bow. In a short time she was pronounced to be a ship, and, from the whiteness and spread of her canvas, a man-of-war. Elmore and Nott hoped that she might be their own frigate. They thought that it was a latitude in which she might very likely be fallen in with. Of course, till the character of the brig had been ascertained, she would bear up in chase. They expressed their hopes to Captain Jones, and begged him to steer for her.

“Were I certain that she is your frigate, I would gladly do so; but as you cannot possibly recognise her at this distance, we shall be wiser to stand clear of her till we find out what she is. I will not alter our course, unless when we get nearer she has the cut of an enemy.”

The midshipmen, having borrowed telescopes, were continually going aloft to have a look at the stranger.

“I say, Elmore, it must be she. That’s her fore-topsail, I’ll declare!” exclaimed Johnny Nott. Elmore was not quite so certain.

After a little time, they were joined by True Blue.

“Paul Pringle, sirs, sent me up to have a look at the stranger,” he remarked.

“I am very glad you have come, Freeborn,” said Sir Henry. “Your eyes are the best in the ship. What do you make her out to be?”

True Blue looked long and earnestly without speaking. At last he answered, in an unusually serious tone:

“She is not our frigate, sir—that I’m certain of; and I’m more than afraid—I’m very nearly certain—that she is French. By the cut of her sails and her general look, she puts me in mind of one of the squadron which chased us off Guernsey.”

True Blue’s confidence made the midshipmen look at the stranger in a different light, and they finally both confessed that they were afraid he was right. Captain Jones agreeing with them, all sail was now crowded on the brig to escape.

In spite of all the sail the brig could carry, the frigate was fast coming up with her.

“I wish that we could fight,” said Johnny Nott to Elmore. “Don’t you think that if we were to get two of the guns aft, we might knock away some of her spars?”

“I fear not,” said his brother midshipman, pointing to the popguns which adorned the packet’s deck. “These things would not carry half as far as the frigate’s guns; and, probably, as soon as we began to fire she would let fly a broadside and sink us.”

“Too true, Sir Henry,” observed the brave Captain of the packet, who stood on deck surrounded by the passengers, many of them asking all sorts of useless questions. His countenance showed how distressed he was. “In this case I fear discretion will form the best part of valour.”

Captain Jones cast anxious glances aloft, as well he might, and the midshipmen and True Blue eyed the frigate; and Nott turned to his messmate and said, in a doubting tone, “Elmore, what do you think of it?”

The other answered sadly. “There is no doubt of it. She is coming up hand over hand with us. Freeborn, I am afraid that I am right.”

“Yes, sir,” answered True Blue, touching his hat. “She is going nearly ten knots to our six.”

“Then she will be up with us within a couple of hours at most,” said the young midshipman with a deep-drawn sigh.

The breeze kept freshening rapidly. The brig carried on, however, till her royal masts went over the side, and her topgallant-masts would have followed had the sails not been handed in time; and now all expectation of escape was abandoned.

Still Captain Jones held on his course, remarking, “It will be time enough to heave-to when her shot comes aboard us.”

The crew went below and put on their clean things and a double allowance of clothing, as well as all their possessions which they could stow away in their pockets. When they returned on deck, they certainly did look, as Johnny Nott observed, “a remarkably stout set of Britons.”

Sir Henry borrowed a midshipman’s hat and dirk, as he had lost his own; and Nott, who had a few sovereigns in his pocket,—a wonderful sum for a midshipman,—divided them with him. The Captain insisted, as the last act of his authority, that all the passengers should remain below, during which time the ladies, at all events, employed themselves in imitating the example of the sailors.

At last a shot was heard; then another and another followed, and then a whole volley of musketry.

Captain Jones kept calmly walking his deck till the French frigate began to fire. He then looked round: there was no ship in sight, no prospect of escape; so, with a sad heart, hauling down the British ensign, he ordered the topsails to be lowered and the courses brailed up, and thus waited the approach of the enemy. What was the astonishment and rage of all on deck to have a volley of musketry fired right down on them, with the coolest deliberation, from the forecastle of the frigate as she ranged up alongside, and then, passing ahead of the brig, rounded-to near her.

“Ah, bêtes! we will teach you dogs of Englishmen to lead a French ship such a chase as you have done when you have no chance of escape!” shouted some one from the quarterdeck.

A bullet passed through Elmore’s hat; another struck Captain Jones on the side, but in the excitement of the moment he did not perceive that he was hurt; while a third grazed True Blue’s arm, wounding the skin and making the blood flow rapidly. Without moving from where he stood or saying a word, he took off his handkerchief and began to bind it up, Harry Hartland and Tim Fid hurrying up with expressions of sorrow to help him.

“Never mind this—it’s nothing,” he said, the tears starting into his eyes. “But it’s the French prison for Paul I’m thinking of. It will break his heart. And those brutes may take me from him.”

The frigate now lowered all her boats, and sent them, with their crews armed to the teeth, on board the brig. The Frenchmen jumped on her deck as if she had been a pirate captured after a desperate fight and long chase.

Scarcely a word was spoken—not a question asked; but officers and men were indiscriminately seized by the collars and hurled into the boats, some of the French officers striking them with the flat side of their drawn swords, and at the same time showering down the most abusive epithets on their heads.

Captain Jones, whose appearance and bearing might have saved him from insult, was seized by several men and thrust, with kicks, into the nearest boat.

Just as the boats came alongside, True Blue had gone below to remain with Paul Pringle. The Frenchmen soon followed him. He tried to show by signs that his godfather was very much hurt. This was evident, indeed. At first the men who came below were going to let him remain; but the order soon reached them that all the English were immediately to be removed from the brig. Not without difficulty, True Blue got leave to assist in carrying Paul, aided by Tom Marline, who had fought his way down below to his friend, and the black cook. With no help from the Frenchmen, Paul was at last placed in a boat, with True Blue by his side.

The passengers were scarcely better treated than were the seamen. The ladies and gentlemen were bundled out of the vessel together, and were allowed to take only such articles as they could carry in their hands. Some of the gentlemen who spoke French expostulated.

“Very good,” answered the Lieutenant. “You have chosen to lighten the vessel of all public property, which would, at all events, have been ours; we must make amends to ourselves by the seizure of what you call private property.”

As True Blue sat at Paul’s head, his godfather looked up. “Ah, boy!” he said with a deep sigh, “this is the worst thing that I ever thought could happen to us; yet it’s a comfort to think that it isn’t our own brave frigate that has been taken, and that a number of our shipmates haven’t been struck down by the enemy’s fire. But it’s the thoughts of the French prison tries me. Yet, Billy, I don’t mind even that so much as I should have done once. You are now a big strong chap, and you won’t let them make a Frenchman of you, as they might have done when you were little, will you?”

“No, Paul; they’ll have a very tough job if they try it on—that they will,” answered True Blue with a scornful laugh which perfectly satisfied his godfather.

“What are the brutes of Englishmen talking about?” growled out one of the Frenchmen. “Hold your tongues, dogs.”

Neither Paul nor True Blue understood these complimentary remarks; but the tone of the speaker’s voice showed them that it might be more prudent to be silent.

As soon as Captain Jones and his mates and the two midshipmen appeared above the gangway of the French frigate, they were seized on by a party of seamen, who threw them on the deck, knocked off their hats, out of which they tore the cockades, and, with oaths, trampled them beneath their feet.

In vain Captain Jones in a manly way appealed to the good feelings of his captors. In vain Sir Henry Elmore repeated what he said in French. The Frenchmen were deaf to all expostulations. The second Captain of the frigate stood by, not only superintending, but aiding in inflicting the indignities with which they were treated.

They were next dragged off and brought into the Captain’s own cabin. Here they expected to be better treated; but no sooner did the Captain enter, than, walking up and down and showering on them the most abusive epithets, he ordered his men to take away their swords and dirks, and to strip off their coats and waistcoats, exclaiming as he did so:

“No one on board La Ralieuse shall wear the livery of a despot—one of those hateful things, a King. Bah!” The Captain and his second in command, having thus vented their rage and spite, ordered the men to carry off their prisoners. The Captain and the young officers were therefore again unceremoniously dragged out of the cabin and forced down below into a space in the hold, dimly lighted by a single lantern. There they found the greater part of the crew already assembled, bursting with rage and indignation at the way they had been treated.

Meantime the boat which contained Paul Pringle, with Tom Marline, True Blue, and the other two boys, arrived alongside the frigate. The French sailors were going to hoist up Paul with very little consideration for his hurts, when, in spite of their black looks, Tom shoved in his shoulder, vehemently exclaiming:

“Avast, ye lubbers! Can’t you see that the man has his ribs stove in? Send down proper slings to lift him on deck, or out of this boat he don’t go while I’ve an arm to strike for him.”

True Blue had continued to support Paul’s head in his lap. The Frenchmen did not understand this demand, and might have proceeded to force Tom up the side had not Pringle himself interfered.

“Don’t fall out with the men, Tom; there’s no use grumbling with them. Do you and Billy help me up. I’ve still some strength left in me.”

Aided thus, Paul reached the Frenchman’s deck, the first he had ever trod except as a victor. No sooner were they there than Tom was seized on, as had been the other seamen, and was dragged off to be abused and kicked down into the hold with the rest. No sooner, however, did some of the Frenchmen attempt to lay hands on Paul, who had been placed sitting up against a gun, than True Blue threw himself before him, and, with a blow on the chest of the man who was about to drag him along, sent him reeling across the deck. Tim Fid and Harry, who had been left at liberty, on this flew to his support, and, standing on either side, literally kept the rest at bay.

True Blue said not a word, but his lips quivered, and, had he held a sharp cutlass in his hand, he would evidently have proved no contemptible opponent.

At first the Frenchmen were amused, and so were a number of the French boys belonging to the ship, who quickly assembled at the spot, especially devoting their attention to jeering and quizzing Fid and Harry.

Their good humour, however, was rapidly vanishing, and they would have probably proceeded to disagreeable extremities had not the surgeon of the ship appeared on the deck. He was a gentleman and a royalist, and had been most unwillingly compelled to come to sea as the alternative of losing his head. His profession gave him some influence among the crew, which he exerted on the side of humanity. Seeing at a glance Paul’s condition, he appealed to his countrymen, remarking that the Englishman must evidently be a good-natured person, or the boys would not be so ready to fight for him.

“Brave little fellows! They deserve to be well treated,” he remarked. “And now do some of you help me to carry the old man below. He is not in a state to be left on deck. Any one of us, remember, may speedily be in a worse condition.”

This appeal had the desired effect, and, the kind surgeon leading the way, Paul was lifted up and carried below to a side cabin on the orlop-deck. True Blue was allowed to remain with him.

The mode of proceeding on board the frigate seemed to True Blue like that of the very slackest of privateers; indeed, when he described what he saw to his godfather, Paul told him that even pirates could not carry on in a worse way.

Before long several of the crew looked in and attempted to speak English, but very seldom got beyond a few of the ordinary oaths so general in the mouths of seamen. At length a man appeared who had been in England as a prisoner during the last war, and could really speak enough English to explain himself. He asked them a number of questions, which either Paul or True Blue answered truly.

“And so,” he said, “I hear from my compatriot that you belonged to the Ruby frigate. Ah! she was a fine ship, and her crew were brave fellows—they fought well. You have heard of her fate, perhaps?”

“No,” answered Paul and True Blue in a breath. “What has happened to her?”

“The fortune of war, my friends,” answered the Frenchman. “She fell in with our consort, La Nymphe of forty guns, and engaged her bravely for three hours. For which side victory would have declared is doubtful, when we appeared in sight. Just then, awful to relate, whether by design or not I cannot say, she blew up with a loud explosion, wounding and killing many on board La Nymphe. Not one man escaped of all her crew.”

“Oh, mate, do you speak the truth?” exclaimed Paul, starting up and seizing the Frenchman by the hand.

“Why should I deceive you, my friend?” answered the republican, putting his other hand on his bosom. “I know how to pity a brave enemy, believe me.”

Paul lay back on his bed and placed both his hands before his eyes, while a gasping sob showed how much True Blue felt the sad news.

Chapter Fifteen.

The account of the destruction of the Ruby soon spread among the English prisoners. At first the two midshipmen especially would not credit it; but the date of the alleged occurrence answered exactly with that of the day when Johnny Nott parted with her and saw her standing towards an enemy’s ship, and heard the firing at the commencement of the action.

“They do not even boast that they took her, or that she had hauled down her flag before she blew up,” he observed. “If they had done so, we might have doubted them. I’m afraid their account is too true.”

“I am afraid so, indeed,” responded Elmore mournfully; “so many fine fellows lost. Our brave skipper Garland, he is a public loss. They do not say that a single officer was saved.”

Thus the midshipmen talked on. They almost forgot their own misfortunes and abominable ill-treatment while thinking of their friends. Some coarse bread and cheese was handed to them in a dirty basket, and water was the only liquid given them to drink; while at night no bedding nor the slightest accommodation was afforded them. In vain the officers pleaded. The men to whom they spoke only laughed and jeered at them, and poor young Elmore only came in for a greater share of abuse when by some means it was discovered that he was what they called an English aristocrat.

“Ah, milord!” exclaimed one fellow with a horrid grin; “if we had you in la belle France, your head would not remain long on your shoulders. We guillotine all such. It’s the best way to treat them. They have trampled too long on our rights, to be forgiven.”

The next morning the British seamen and officers were ordered up on deck, and, being placed near the gangway, were surrounded by a guard of marines with fixed bayonets. If they attempted to move from the spot, they soon had notice to go back again.

The prize had parted company, and they supposed had been sent into port; but the frigate herself stood away to the westward to continue her cruise. In spite of the general want of discipline, a very bright lookout was kept for any strange sail in sight. In the afternoon watch a vessel was seen to the southward, and the frigate bore up in chase. The stranger, on seeing this, made all sail to escape.

The French seamen pointed her out to the British. “Ah! ah! we shall soon have her!” they exclaimed. “See, the cowards dare not wait our coming up.”

Meantime, Paul Pringle lay in his berth, pretty well cared for, and most devotedly watched by True Blue. Billy was advised by the kind doctor to show himself as little as possible, lest he should be ordered to join the rest of the prisoners. He occasionally, however, stole out, that he might ascertain for Paul in what direction the ship was steering, and what was taking place. It was towards the evening that he came quickly back and reported that he had seen all the prisoners hurried below on a sudden, and that the wind being from the westward, all sail had been made on the frigate, and that she had been put dead before it, having abandoned the chase of the vessel of which she had been in pursuit.

“What it means I don’t quite know,” observed True Blue; “but there’s something in the wind, of that I’m pretty certain.”

The tramping of feet overhead, the hurried passing of the crew up and down, showed Paul also that such was the case. True Blue was standing at the door of the berth when the surgeon came below, and, as he passed him, whispered, “Keep quiet with your friend, boy. The crew may not be in the humour to bear the sight of you.” He did as he was advised for some time; but, peeping out, he saw the powder-boys carrying up powder and shot, and other missiles from the magazine, while the flurry and bustle increased, and he felt sure that the frigate was going into action.

“Paul, I must go and learn what it is all about,” he said. “I suppose that we are coming up with the chase.”

Paul, not supposing there would be any risk, did not prevent his going. He crept out quietly. Everybody was so busy that no one remarked him. He looked out at one of the bow-ports; but nothing was to be seen ahead. He glanced on the other side; not a sail was in sight.

He came back to the berth. “Paul!” he exclaimed joyfully, “it is not that the frigate is chasing, but she is being chased. She seems to be under all sail, and in a desperate hurry to get away.”

“We’ve a chance, then, of not having to see the inside of a French port,” observed Paul Pringle. “That’s a thing to be thankful for; but, Billy, it’s sad news we shall have to take home about Abel, and Peter, and the rest. I must go and break it to Mrs Ogle and Mrs Bush, and their children. It will make my heart bleed—that it will, I know.”

Paul and True Blue talked on for some time, as very naturally they often did, about their old ship and shipmates, till their well-practised ears caught the sound of a distant gun.

“That’s right aft!” exclaimed Paul. “It comes, I doubt, from the leading ship of the pursuing squadron. I pray that the frigate may not escape them.”

“I must go on deck and see how many ships there are,” said True Blue. “The Frenchmen can but kick me down again, and I can easily jump out of their way.”

He had not gone long when down he came again, panting as if for want of breath. “Oh, Paul!” he exclaimed, “I thought to have seen two or three frigates or a line-of-battle ship at least; but, would you believe it, there is but one frigate, more like the Ruby than any ship I ever saw; and if I didn’t know for certain that her keel was at the bottom of the Atlantic, I could have sworn that it was she herself. It quite took away my breath to look at her, and then when the Frenchmen saw me looking at the stranger, they hove their gun-sponges and rammers at me, so I had to run for it to get out of their way.”

“Billy, I wish that I could have a look at this stranger the Frenchmen are so afraid of,” said Paul. “If she is a frigate I have seen before, I should know her again.”

“I don’t mind the Frenchmen. I will go and have another look at her,” answered True Blue. “We shall soon be within speaking distance of her guns.”

As he spoke, he kept moving about the berth like a hyena in its cage; and soon, unable any longer to restrain his impatience, out he darted and unimpeded reached the deck. The pursuing frigate ran up the British colours, and opened her fire with a couple of bow-chasers. She had good reason to do so, for the Frenchman was steering to the southward and land was ahead. One of the shot struck the counter of La Ralieuse, the other passed a little on one side. True Blue gazed earnestly and long at the English frigate. He was recalled in a disagreeable way to a sense of where he was by feeling the point of a cutlass pressed against his back, and, looking round, he saw a seaman with no pleasant looks grinning at him and pointing below.

What the man said he could not make out. He got out of the fellow’s way and hurried below. “Paul, I am right!” he exclaimed. “She is either the Ruby or another frigate so like her that you couldn’t tell one from the other.”

The next ten minutes were passed in a state of great anxiety, and when True Blue again looked out, he reported that the Frenchmen were shortening sail preparatory to commencing action. The crew were all at their stations. An unusual silence reigned on board. The Captain was making a speech. It was about liberty, equality, and fraternity, and the bonnet rouge was displayed.

The cheers were cut very short by a broadside from the English frigate, the shot of which crashed through the Frenchman’s sides, tore up the planks, and carried off the heads of two or more of the cheerers.

“That was a right hearty English broadside!” exclaimed Paul. “I could almost fancy I knew the sound of the shot. I wish that you and I were with them, Billy, instead of being cooped up here.”

The English had not the game all to themselves. The French almost immediately replied with considerable spirit to the compliment they had received.

“They are having a running fight of it—yardarm to yardarm, as far as I can make out,” said Paul. “Well, that’s the right way to go about the business. A brave fellow commands the English frigate, whatever she is.”

“She’s no bigger than the Frenchman,” said True Blue.

“Maybe not, Billy,” observed Paul, lifting himself up on his elbow. “It isn’t the size of the ship—it’s the men on board her makes the difference. Depend on’t, those in the ship alongside us are of the right sort and properly commanded.”

Presently there was a louder noise on deck than usual, and evident confusion. True Blue could contain his curiosity no longer, and before Paul could stop him, he had darted out of the berth.

“Heaven will guard him,” said Paul to himself; “but he runs as great a risk as any of these Frenchmen.”

True Blue was soon back. “The English frigate has shot away the Frenchman’s fore-topmast and foreyard, and she’s up in the wind, and the Englishman is ranging ahead to rake her!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “We shall have it in another half minute. And do you know, Paul, the more I look at the stranger, the more I fancy she is like our brave little Ruby. Here it comes.”

True enough, the shot did come, thick and fast—not one seemed to have missed—right into the bows of La Ralieuse. Some seemed to be sweeping her main, others her upper deck, or flying among her masts and spars, while more than one struck between wind and water. At the same moment shrieks, and cries, and groans, arose from all parts of the ship, mingled with shouts and oaths, levelled at the heads of their enemies.

“Keep quiet, Billy,” said Paul. “The French, if they saw you, might do you an injury, boy. We shall soon have the flag of England flying over our heads.”

As True Blue peeped out as before from the berth, he saw numerous wounded men brought into the cockpit, where the surgeons were already busy at work with their instruments and bandages. More and more were brought down. Further supplies of shot were being carried up, and the rapid passing of the powder-boys to and from the magazine showed that there was no expectation of bringing the contest to a speedy termination.

Nearly all this time the Frenchman’s guns kept up an incessant roar. They ceased only now and then, when, as Paul conjectured, the English frigate was passing either ahead or astern of them, so that they could not reach her.

Now La Ralieuse had to stand the effects of another raking broadside. This time it was astern, and came in at the after-ports, tearing away the head of the rudder, and sweeping both decks from one end to the other. Thirty men or more were killed or wounded as they stood at their guns by this one broadside. True Blue ran up on deck to take a look round and saw them stretched on the decks in ghastly rows, pale and still, or writhing in their agony. The mizen-topmast was also gone, and the rigging of the mainmast seemed terribly cut up.

He rapidly again dived below to report what he had seen.

“That’s enough, boy!” exclaimed Paul in a voice of triumph. “She cannot get away from the English ship, and sooner or later our brave fellows will have her. Ah, there they are at it again. Hurrah for Old England!”

“Old England for ever!” shouted True Blue. He might have sung out at the top of his voice, for amid the terrific din of battle the Frenchmen could not have heard him.

Presently there was a loud crashing sound, a severe shock, and the frigate heeled over with the blow, which made her quiver in every timber.

“Oh, boy!” cried Paul, seizing True Blue’s hand in his eagerness, “they are going to board, and here I lie with my ribs stove in. If I could but handle my cutlass, we could be on deck and join them; but no—stay below by me, Billy. They’ll make short work of it. Hark! those are true British cheers. They have the Frenchman fast. There they come! They are swarming over the side and through the ports! There’s the sound of the cutlasses! Cold steel will do it! Those are the Frenchmen’s pistols; our fellows know what’s the best thing to use. They’ve gained a footing on the deck—they’ll not lose it, depend on that. There! they shout again! The sounds are just above our heads. Hurrah for Old England! The Frenchmen are crying out, too. It is—it is for quarter! They’ll get that, though they don’t deserve it. On come our brave fellows! There’s the tramp of their feet—the clash of the cutlasses! Nearer they come! They’re overhead! They’ve gained the main deck! Hark! Shut to the door and hold it tight, boy. Down come the Frenchmen, helter-skelter! They’re flying for their lives! They’re coming down by dozens, twenties, fifties! They’ve given way fore and aft! All hands are shouting for quarter! Hurrah, boy! Hurrah, True Blue! That cheer, I know it. The Frenchman’s flag is down! Once more we’ve the glorious British ensign above our heads! Here come our fellows, open the door and hail them!”

True Blue did as he was bid; and at that instant who should appear, cutlass and pistol in hand, but Abel Bush, Peter Ogle, and a dozen or more, whose well-known faces proclaimed them part of the crew of the Ruby. Great was their surprise at finding Paul and True Blue there, and loud and hearty were the greetings which hurriedly passed between them.

“And so you all escaped when the frigate blew up in action with the Frenchman the day we left you?” said Paul after he had explained in a few words how he and his companions had been captured by the Frenchmen.

“Blew up!” exclaimed Abel. “We never blew up; though we had a jolly good blow-out that evening, after we had taken a thundering big French frigate, which we must have begun to engage before you lost sight of our mastheads. We should have taken her consort, too, before the sun went down, if, like a cur, she hadn’t turned tail and run for it; when, as it took us some little time to repair damages, we could not follow.”

“Hurrah!” exclaimed Paul. “Hurrah! I thought so. This is the very craft herself, depend on it; and that is the reason the hounds have been worrying our poor fellows, as if they had been mere brutes. You’ll hear all about it by and by. But I say, Abel, do you go and look after the surgeon of this ship. He’s a kind-hearted gentleman. Take care no one hurts him. Billy will try and find him.”

Paul Pringle never forgot those who had been kind to him. True Blue was also very glad to show his gratitude to the French doctor, whom they soon found in his cabin, where he had retired during the first rush of the British on board.

Summoning his assistants, the surgeon returned to the cockpit, where he was quickly occupied in endeavouring to mitigate the sufferings of his wounded countrymen, who now, mangled and bleeding, were being collected from all parts of the captured ship.

When True Blue got back to Paul, he found Tom Marline and Harry and Fid with him. The prisoners had been released; but by the particular advice of the officers, they had not yet mentioned the insults they had received, lest, already heated with the excitement of battle, the accounts should exasperate the crew of the Ruby and make them retaliate on the Frenchmen.

Paul, at his earnest request, was now removed back to his own ship while she lay alongside the prize. He and True Blue were warmly received by their shipmates, as were Tom and Fid and Harry. So also were the two midshipmen. The Captain, especially, was delighted at getting back young Elmore, who was an only son, and placed by his mother especially under his care.

“Yes, sir; here I am!” said the middy after the Captain had greeted him. “And, sir, I owe my life to the bravery of Freeborn, who leaped overboard to save me, in a raging sea, when no other means could have been employed.”

“A noble, gallant young fellow. I will not overlook him, depend on that, Elmore. You and I must settle what we can best do for his interests,” said the Captain warmly. But just then there was so much to be done that he could say no more on the subject.

The Ruby had suffered considerably both in hull and rigging, and in killed and wounded. The Frenchmen had, however, lost between seventy and eighty men in all. The second Captain was killed, and the first desperately wounded. The frigates had got so close in with the French coast that they were obliged to anchor to repair damages, so as to be in a condition to make sail and stand off again. It was a very anxious time for the English, for they were close enough in to be very much annoyed, should guns be brought down to the coast to bear upon them, or should any French ships be warned of their vicinity, and be able to get up and attack them before they were prepared for another engagement.

These considerations made everybody on board work with a will, and all night long the wearied crew of the Ruby were putting their own ship into fighting order, and getting up jury-masts so as to make sail on the prize. A careful lookout was kept, however, so that they might be prepared to meet danger from whatever quarter it might come.

The passengers taken in the packet were among the first removed from the French frigate, and were accommodated as well as circumstances would allow on board the Ruby.

The morning after the battle, the wind came off the shore, and a large concourse of people assembled on the coast had the mortification to see the Ruby and her prize make sail and stand away to the northward.

A few hours afterwards, a fleet of gunboats and two frigates came to look for them; but they were beyond reach of the former, and though the frigates followed, they were driven back by the sight of an English squadron, and both the Ruby and La Ralieuse reached Portsmouth in safety.

Chapter Sixteen.

True Blue’s agitation was considerable, when, the day after the ship’s arrival in Portsmouth Harbour, he heard his name called along the deck, and found that he was sent for into the Captain’s cabin. “I wonder what I can be wanted for,” he said to Abel Bush as he was giving his jacket a shake, and seeing that his shoes and handkerchief were tied with nautical propriety.

“About the matter of the jumping overboard,” said Abel. “They think a good deal of it, you know!”

“That’s more than I do,” answered True Blue. “I wish they hadn’t found out it was me. Still I must go. Good-bye, Abel. I hope they won’t want to be paying me. I’ll not touch a shilling—of that I’m determined!”

“Stick to that, boy—don’t,” said Abel. “You did your duty, and that’s all you’d wish to do.”

True Blue hurried along the deck till he reached the Captain’s cabin, then hat in hand he entered, and, pulling a lock of his hair, stood humbly at the foot of the table. He saw that the Captain and Mr Brine, and the two midshipmen, Sir Henry Elmore and Mr Nott, were there, and two or three strange gentlemen from the shore.

“Sit down, Freeborn,” said the Captain, pointing to a chair, which, very much to his surprise, Mr Nott got up and placed near him. “It is now a good many years since we were first shipmates, and during all that time I have only seen and heard good of you, and now I wish to thank you most heartily for the gallant way in which you saved Sir Henry Elmore’s life. He and all his family wish also to show what they feel in the way most likely to be acceptable to you.”

“Indeed they do. You performed a very gallant, noble action, young man, one to be proud of!” observed one of the gentlemen from the shore, who was an uncle of Sir Henry. “On what have you especially set your heart? What would you like to do? I suppose that you would not wish to leave the navy?”

“No, that I would not, sir,” answered True Blue warmly. “But I know, sir, what I would like to do.”

“What is it, my man? Speak out frankly at once!” said the gentleman. “I have no doubt that we shall be able to do as you wish.”

“Then, sir, it’s this,” said True Blue, brightening up. “They’ve carried Paul Pringle to the hospital. Captain Garland knows the man, sir—my godfather. He’ll be alone there, nobody particular to look after him; and what I should like, sir, would be to be allowed to go and stay with him till he is well and about again, or till the ship sails, when I don’t think godfather would wish me to stay on shore even to be with him.”

The gentlemen looked at each other, and then at the Captain and Mr Brine, who did not seem surprised, though Johnny Nott appeared a little inclined to laugh.

“A seaman thinks less of jumping overboard to save the life of a fellow-creature than you would of picking a drunken man up out of the road,” said the Captain, addressing the gentleman. “You must propose something to him. He will not suggest anything himself.”

“I think, Freeborn, I may easily promise that you will be allowed to remain with your old friend as long as he wishes it,” said the Captain, turning to True Blue. “But I am sure Sir Henry’s family will not be satisfied without showing some mark of their esteem and gratitude. What should you say now if the way was open to you of becoming an officer—first lieutenant of a ship like this, or perhaps her Captain? There is nothing to prevent it. I am very sure that you would be welcomed by all those among whom you were placed.”

“There would be no difficulty as to expense,” said the gentleman from the shore.

True Blue looked up at first as if the Captain was joking with him; then he became very grave, and in a voice almost choking with agitation he answered, “Oh, don’t ask me, sir; don’t ask me. I don’t want to be anything but a seaman, such as my father was before me. I couldn’t go and leave Paul, and Abel, and Peter, and the rest—men who have bred me up, and taught me all a sailor’s duties in a way very few get taught. I couldn’t, indeed, I wouldn’t, leave them even to be an officer on the quarterdeck.”

True Blue was silent, and no one spoke for some time, till the Captain turned aside to the gentleman and said, “I told you that I thought it likely such would be his answer. You must find some means of overcoming his scruples. Perhaps Elmore and Nott will manage him by themselves better than we shall.”

The two midshipmen took the hint and invited True Blue to accompany them out of the cabin. They wisely did not take him on the quarterdeck, but got him between two of the after-guns, where they could converse without interruption. The result of the deliberation was that True Blue promised to consult his friends on the subject; and Elmore wound up by saying, “At all events, you must come up with me to see my mother and sisters in London. They will not be content without thanking you, and they cannot come down here to do so.”

“With you, Sir Henry!” said True Blue, thinking that the midshipman really now was joking. “They wouldn’t know what to do with such as me. I should like to go and see great London town—that I should; but—but—”

“No ‘buts,’ and so you shall, Freeborn; and that’s all settled.”

True Blue got leave of absence that afternoon, and Abel Bush accompanied him to the hospital, where he left him with Paul. He had never been more happy in his life, for the hospital servants were very glad to have their labours lightened, and left him to attend all day long on his godfather, and on several other wounded shipmates in the same ward. He told Paul all that had been said to him, and all the offers made him; but his godfather declined giving any advice till a formal consultation had been held by all his sponsors and their mates. Still True Blue thought that he seemed inclined to recommend him to do what he himself wished.