CHAPTER XXVIII.
ON BOARD THE "MERRY ANDREW."
While the "Merry Andrew" was lying at Blackwell taking in cargo, Capt. Liddle, like the shrewd captain he was, had caused it to be notified that he would be happy to take a certain number of passengers to the New World at fifty pounds per head. It happened, as it usually happens in such like cases, that just at that time the exact number of persons that the ship could accommodate found either that Great Britain was too crowded for them to move freely in, or that at length the hour had arrived for them to make a fresh start in life. The captain of the "Merry Andrew" offered them the necessary opportunity. His ship would take them to a country where they would be able to turn without being elbowed. And there was no doubt that the start they contemplated would be a fresh one, inasmuch as in the new land their heads would be where their feet were now, and night was day and day night, and cherries grew with their stones outside, and many other wonders were commonplaces of every-day life. Accordingly, these enterprising souls, much to Capt. Liddle's satisfaction, paid their fifty pounds per head for four months of quiet misery on the sea. By that stroke of business Capt. Liddle served two purposes. He put money in his pocket as chief owner of the vessel, and he provided society for his wife, who was to accompany him on the voyage. Mrs. Liddle was a cheerful little body, who, although she was thirty years of age, had as much sentiment as a tender-hearted miss of eighteen. Her engagement with Capt. Liddle had been a long one. It was now more than twelve years since she first saw him and fell in love with him, as he did with her; but she happened to be blessed in a father who entertained not uncommon ideas as to the value of money, and as to the difference it made in a man, especially in a man who presumed to fall in love with his daughter. At that time Capt. Liddle was only second mate, and his matrimonial overtures were pooh-poohed by Capt. Prue, which was the name and title of his wife's father; Bessie Prue was hers. Capt. Prue (retired from the service) declared that he loved sailors and loved the sea, and that nothing would please him better than that his Bessie should marry a sailor. But then, that sailor must be a captain, he declared, and that captain must be absolute owner of the ship he commanded. Having passed the principal part of his life on sea, in a position where his word was law, he was, as most old sea-captains are, intolerant of opposition. Having given the word, he would not depart from it. Consequently, second-mate Liddle found that all his arguments and rhapsodies were as wind--a fluid which is much more useful at sea than on land, however it is produced. Bessie, as it proved, possessed a goodly share of her old father's determination of character. Having fallen in love with second-mate Liddle, and having determined to marry him or die an old maid, she informed her lover that if he would be faithful to her, she would be faithful to him--a form of declaration which has been very popular from time immemorial. The pledge being sealed by the infatuated ones in the usual manner--that is, with much protestation, with much unnecessary solemnity, (as if they were doomed to execution, and were to be beheaded within a few hours), with many kisses and tender embracings--Bessie went to her father and apprised him, melodramatically, of her determination.
"You wouldn't marry without my consent?" was the obstinate old captain's question, after a little consideration. They were absurdly happy, these two determined persons. Bessie was the apple of his eye, the pride of his heart; she had not a wish, except the wish matrimonial, that he would not have made any sacrifice to satisfy. "You wouldn't marry without my consent, my pretty?" he repeated anxiously, for she did not answer his question immediately.
"I won't, on one condition," replied Bessie categorically; "and that is, that you won't ask me or wish me, or try to persuade me to marry anybody but John Liddle; for I love him with all my heart, and I wouldn't give him up--no, not to be made Lord High Admiral."
"I give you my promise, my pretty," said Capt. Prue, secretly admiring his daughter's determination, and loving her the more for it; "I'll never ask you, nor wish you, nor try to persuade you to marry anybody but John Liddle."
It may be guessed how willingly the old sea-captain gave the pledge, when it is known that he looked forward with absolute dread to the time when Bessie might be taken from him to another home. He would give her any thing, help her to anything but a husband. What right had any body else to her? Why, the ship would go on the rocks without her "And when John Liddle is skipper and owns a ship," he added, "I'll give my consent free and willing." In which last words Capt. Prue was not quite ingenuous. But the compact was made and adhered to. Second-mate Liddle was informed of it, and was compelled to abide by it. He trusted to chance, as many other men, not lovers, have done before him; and he derived consolation from the thought, that when Capt. Prue and Bessie pledged their word, it would need something very extraordinary and unlooked-for to induce them to break it. He rose from second mate to first mate, from first mate to skipper; and when he returned from his voyages, he found Bessie faithful and true, and received a hearty welcome from her father. And during these long and many years of probation, he learned to love his true-hearted little woman more deeply than he had done at first; she taught him to understand what love really was; she taught him the true beauty of it, the holiness of it--that it was something more than a sentiment, something higher than a passion; she taught him to understand that it was a sacrament.
It seems fated for this story, that its narration should necessitate, for the most part, the depicting of the higher virtues, and what is most noble and self-sacrificing in our natures. But it should be none the less acceptable because of that.
A short time after Bessie's lover became skipper, a relative of his died, and left him some money. Directly he came into possession of it, he bought a share in the "Merry Andrew." Bessie was then twenty-six years of age, as pretty as ever, and as fresh at heart as ever. One would have thought that her father would have spoken to her of his own accord, there and then, and that he would have given her the reward of her faithfulness and devotion. But the truth must be told; he was a selfish old curmudgeon, and he trembled at the thought of losing her. So once more Capt. Liddle sailed away from his lady-love on the voyage in which our Joshua commenced his apprenticeship at sea. The "Merry Andrew" was away, as you know, for more than four years; and when it returned, and Capt. Liddle went to see his Bessie, he found her in mourning. Her father was dead. Before he died he had made her the only reparation in his power. The last codicil to his will, written a few weeks before his death, contained expressions of his love for her, his admiration of her lover, his consent to their marriage, and his regret that he had not consented to it years ago. But it is so easy to regret after a thing has occurred which we might have prevented or remedied. I have not yet made up my mind as to the value of deathbed repentance. Neither am I satisfied that we may sin properly for six days in the week, in a comfortable knowledge that we can evade the penalty by crying, "I have sinned!" on the sabbath.
However, the departed Captain Prue had been in all other respects a kind and tender father, and no word of reproach passed the lips of Bessie and John Liddle. They were not too old for the enjoyment of life's blessings. Two months before the present sailing of the "Merry Andrew" they were married; and it is not to be doubted that the circumstances of their engagement promised them a lasting happiness.
Mrs. Liddle had a maid, a beautiful brown-complexioned girl, whose appearance might have suggested some suspicion of a gypsy breed, had it not been for her manners, which showed a refinement no gypsy-girl could have acquired in her vagrant life, and for her eyes, which were gray despite their brightness. The circumstances of her becoming Mrs. Liddle's maid were somewhat peculiar. She had presented herself to that lady a few days before the "Merry Andrew" sailed, and stating that she had heard by accident that Mrs. Liddle wanted a maid to accompany her on the voyage, asked to be engaged in that capacity. There was something so winsome about the girl, that Mrs. Liddle--who had not succeeded in engaging a maid willing to brave the terrors of a sea-voyage--was at once attracted to her, and lent a sympathizing ear to her story of being alone in the world and without friends. Perhaps it was Mrs. Liddle's romantic happiness that caused her to be less prudent than usual; but certain it is that the girl was engaged, and, setting about her duties at once, proved so apt and attentive, that Mrs. Liddle congratulated herself upon her decision. Captain Liddle did not interfere in the matter; but when he first saw the girl her face seemed familiar to him, and he glanced at her more than once, wondering where he had met her. But he could not settle the doubt, and the matter was not of sufficient importance to permanently engage his attention. Thus it was that Minnie succeeded in obtaining a passage in the "Merry Andrew," and in being near to the man who was dearer to her than all other earthly considerations. She was not influenced by any dishonoring passion; she simply desired not to be parted from the man she loved. She did not want him to see her or speak to her--at least, so she thought at that time; it was sufficient for her to know that she was in the same ship with him, and that she would perhaps now and again catch a glimpse of her hero, without his knowing that she was by. When she first made up her mind to leave her home, she did not pause to consider what would be the consequences of her rash act. She was unhappy there and utterly miserable; everybody was against her; and when she discovered, as she did discover, that Susan was playing the spy upon her, she became defiant and more resolved. She loved her father and honored him; but she loved Joshua with all the passion of her passionate nature, and in her mistaken sense of right and wrong, the stronger love usurped the place of duty, and made her oblivious of all else. She was blinded by love, and by love in which there was not a shade of impure passion.
She had had at first a wild idea of dressing herself in sailor's clothes, and had saved a few shillings towards the purchasing of them; but her success with Mrs. Liddle set that aside. When she went on to the ship with her mistress, she was careful that Joshua should not see her; but indeed, if they had met face to face at that time, it is not likely that he would have recognized her in her disguise; for his thoughts were with Ellen, and his heart was too full as yet to be curious about the passengers. But the Lascar saw her, and was puzzled about her directly he set eyes upon her face. He watched her like a cat, and yet he could not make up his mind about her. He had seen her often in Stepney, but he could scarcely believe that the fair girl with the beautiful hair and this dark gypsy with the short curls were one and the same. He knew her name and all about her from Solomon Fewster, and he was quite ready to believe in the villainy of Joshua. Resolved to make sure of the value of his suspicions, he contrived to pass close by her as she was taking some bandboxes down stairs to the saloon, and as he passed her, he muttered the name of "Minnie Kindred." A start, a frightened look over her shoulders, and the dropping of the bandboxes down the stairs, were sufficient confirmation of his doubts; and before the pilot left the ship he gave him a scrawl for Solomon Fewster to the effect that Joshua and Minnie had run away together. He was cautious enough also to send upon another piece of paper a private scrawl to Solomon Fewster, saying he was not quite sure, but that Fewster would know how to act if Minnie were missing from home.
But when the Lascar next saw Minnie's face, which was not until the "Merry Andrew" was a thousand miles the other side of the Bay of Biscay, his doubts returned, and he thought that, after all, he must have been mistaken. He did not know the cunning of Minnie. In the startled glance she had thrown over her shoulder when her name was pronounced, she had marked the Lascar's face, so that she was sure she would know it again; and when, after the lapse of weeks, she detected him gazing at at her, she looked at him so boldly and contemptuously that he drooped his eyes before her. What added to his perplexity was, that he never saw Joshua speak to her, never saw him look at her. When she came on deck, which she did very rarely, and never unless her duty to her mistress called her there, she was careful not to give Joshua an opportunity of speaking to her or of looking closely at her; and he, detecting in her manner a wish to avoid any little attention he might have it in his mind to offer her, did not trouble himself even by giving her a thought. She was as distant and reserved to all the officers; and in a little while it began to be understood, that the handsome gypsy-maid did not wish to be spoken to by any one on board but her mistress; and her wish was scrupulously respected.
To readers who are not well acquainted with ship-life, it may seem strange that Minnie should have been able to keep herself so free from observation; but there really can be--and there often is--as much exclusiveness on board a passenger-ship as there is in society on land. You may live in a ship for months, and travel for thousands upon thousands of miles over the seemingly interminable waste of waters, without having any more personal knowledge of those who sleep within a few yards of you than you would have of them if you and they were living at the extreme ends of a great city. When the long, long voyage is at an end, and the ship is being piloted into the bay that skirts the land of Pisgah, men and women whom you do not remember ever to have seen before appear magically on deck; and you wonder where they come from, and how it is you have not set eyes on them during all the time that you and they have been living in the wonderful house of wood and iron that has brought you safely over the raging seas.
Joshua knew the Lascar directly he saw him on board, and was not pleased to find that he was one of the crew. But the man did his duty, and worked as well and apparently as willingly as the other sailors; and as he was uniformly respectful, Joshua could not, even if he had been so inclined, treat him harshly with any sense of justice.
And so the "Merry Andrew," containing within its wooden walls its load of human love and hate, cleaves through the ocean onward to its goal steadily and patiently, while before it, with every new rising of the sun, a monotonous hill of waters, never varying, never changing, lies in the gray distance mocking its progress. Through cold weather, through hot weather, burnt up in the torrid zone, and chilled by winds which rush from ice-bound waters; through days when scarce a ripple can be seen on the grand ocean's breast, and others when the waves leap at its throat furiously, as an enemy might do; through nights when the moon rises threateningly in the heavens, like a blazing ball of lurid fire, suggesting thoughts of a dreadful to-morrow; and through dark nights, solemnly beautiful, when the track of the vessel is marked by the brilliant Medusæ (the sailor's girdle of Venus) which gleam and shine--a line of living light--in the wondrous sea: through all these, with unerring faith, the ship pursues its way steadily and patiently to the garden of the world. Now the captain smells the breeze, and hoarse cries, unintelligible to all but the initiated, travel about the ship to clap on sail and make good use of the breath of Boreas. Then the ship dashes on like a god drunk with joy, dives into awful depths, and climbs water-mountains that a moment ago threatened to fall in upon it and dash it to pieces. The curling seas break over the deck, and the toilers that are battling with wind and wave cling fast for dear life to ropes and spars; while ever and anon a water-titan, more angry than his fellows, breaks against the side with such tremendous force that the vessel reels and quivers beneath the mighty shock. So! the breeze slackens and dies away; the anger of the sea subsides, and after many days the ship is becalmed. Then the passengers lie about the white deck in happy indolence, and muse and dream of the great whale they saw a while ago, hung round with sea-weed and barnacles; of the cloudless night, star-gemmed above and below; of the beautiful Southern Cross and the strange Magellan clouds; and while they muse and dream, the white sky stares down lazily into blue peaceful waters. Every one on board is contented with the change, excepting the skipper, who paces the deck restlessly and prays for the breeze to spring up--taking advantage of the calm, however, like the good skipper he is, to splice ropes, and make new sails and mend old ones. Soon wind and water wake into life again, and the waves sparkle, and the fresh breeze blows merrily, when a sudden cry rings through the ship that a man is overboard. The next moment every soul on board is bending over the bulwarks, watching the retreating form of the sailor who is floating on his back, gazing with agonizing dread at the cruel beaks of the swan-white albatrosses, which are already hovering above him. Quickly the ship is put about; a boat, with rowers in it, is lowered into the sea; and after the lapse of many anxious moments a wild cheer rings through the air, as the man saved from death, is dragged into the boat. He tells afterwards to eager listeners--he is a notable man on board from that day forth--how it seemed to him that he was floating on his back for full a day, and how the only fear he felt was that the albatrosses would pick out his eyes. Then the following week a young man died who was in a consumption when he was first brought on to the ship, and who had hoped that the warm breezes of the South would give him a new lease of life; but he was never to breathe the balmy southern air. The little colony of human beings is very sad when the funeral service is read over the body, and the canvas coffin slips with a dull thud into the sea; and a fear arises that some calamity is near. And surely that night there is a fearful storm. The wind howls and roars; heavy seas dash down the two men at the wheel; the sails split into a thousand shreds; masts and spars crack like reeds. The sobs and lamentations of the passengers are dreadful to bear. Minnie, creeping from her cabin into the saloon, sees a dozen men and women, half-dressed, on their knees, praying for mercy and forgiveness, making vows of reformation, and indulging in all the fear-impelled evidences of a suddenly awakened contrition. Pursued by the conviction that in a few minutes she and all in the ship will meet their doom, she yearns with all her soul to see Joshua, to touch him, to whisper in his ear that Minnie is by his side. Then, if he will but take her hand, she will be content to go down with him into the solemn depths of the awful sea. She creeps to the wet stairs leading to the deck, only to find that the hatches are fastened down, and that she is a prisoner. She tears at the cruel door that separates her from Joshua, until her fingers bleed and her strength gives way. She calls aloud to him, but she cannot hear her own voice, so weak is it and so overwhelming is the roar of the storm. She sinks, despairing, at the foot of the stairs, and in the agony of her mind and the terror of the time so entirely loses consciousness, that the cold waters which steal down the hatchway are powerless to arouse her. But with the next rising of the sun the storm has passed away, and the captain looks joyful, and the sailors sing blithely at their work, and the passengers forget their vows of reformation. So the ship sails on and on, until land is sighted, and the passengers begin to prepare their best clothes to go on shore in. Then comes a quiet evening when the "Merry Andrew" drops quietly down the beautiful bay, and as evening deepens into night, a thousand twinkling lights from distant hills welcome the wanderers and gladden their hearts. How peaceful, how lovely, is the night! The balmy air, the restful sound of dipping oars, the floating strains of music that come from a neighboring ship, the beautiful star-lit waters--all these bring grateful feelings to weary travellers, and silent prayers of thankfulness arise to Heaven for the mercy that has brought them safely through the perils of the mighty sea.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE WRECK OF THE "MERRY ANDREW."
Built in the bed of a beautiful valley and on gardened slopes rising from the waters which run to the sea, lies Sydney, the fair city of the South. It is spring although the month is October. The heavens are bright with bright clouds, the air is sweet with perfume from tree and flower, the bay is gemmed with gardened isles and promontories. Outside the heads which protect the bay and make it a safe refuge for mighty fleets, the sea dashes against hoary rocks which stand defiant of its wrath; but to-day, swayed by the influence of smiling sun and cloud, the grim old walls sport with the huge waves, splinter them into silver spray, and send them, laughing, back into the sea. In the fair land girt by the blue waters of the South Pacific are orange-groves, the fragrance of whose snow-white blossoms is in harmony with the time and place, and coral-trees with bright scarlet flower, and trees of peach, loquat, and bread, and hill-slopes where the vines grow, and myriad other evidences of Nature's beneficence. All things that see the light contribute to the beauty of spring.
"'Tis the garden of the world," said Captain Liddle to his wife, as they stood apart from the others on board the "Merry Andrew;" "'tis the garden of the world," he repeated, gazing at the lovely hills and gloriously-tinted sky with that sense of gratitude which it is so good for a man to experience.
Her thoughts were in harmony with his, but she did not answer him immediately. She, too, was sensible of the beautiful scene around them, and stood by his side in silent thankfulness. To-morrow, the "Merry Andrew," having discharged her cargo, and taken in another (chiefly hard wood), was to set sail for China, where she had a charter for London. It was of London--of home--that the captain's wife was thinking, and presently her thoughts found simple expression.
"Yes, John," she said; "it is indeed a garden--a beautiful garden; but it is not home."
"Why now, Bessie," said the captain, looking down smilingly upon the wife he had waited and worked for as anxiously as Jacob did for Rachel, "could you not content yourself here?"
"All my life, John?"
"All your life, my dear."
"No," she said without hesitation; "I should always be pining for home. Even if we were poor, and it were a necessity that we should live here, I don't think I could manage to quite content myself. But as it is"--
"As it is, Bessie"--repeated her husband, in secret delight at his wife's enthusiasm.
"As it is, John," she responded softly, "'there's no place like home.'"
Captain Liddle hummed a few bars of the Englishman's household hymn; and then, looking to that part of the ship where Joshua was busy, said: "There is some one on board, Bessie, who is even more anxious to get home than you are."
"Who can that be, John?"
"My handsome mate, as you call him, Joshua Marvel. He was expressing his delight to me yesterday that we should be not away longer than we thought we should when we started. And when I asked him what made him so impatient to get home, he told me that he was married three days before we left Gravesend. How would you have liked that?"
"I wouldn't have allowed you to go," said Mrs. Liddle, with a very positive shake of the head.
"Easily said, little woman; not so easily managed, though, if I had been third mate instead of captain. Thank your stars that you married a captain."
"So I do, John," said Mrs. Liddle tenderly--so tenderly, that her husband would have stooped and kissed her, if they had been alone. "Was it a love-match?"
"Marvel's? Certainly, I should say. When I went to his house in London to see him, I saw a very beautiful girl in his room. Perhaps it is to her that he is married."
"Very beautiful, sir?" exclaimed Mrs. Liddle, with a toss of her head. "I am almost inclined to take you to task for that; but I'll ask you, instead, to describe her."
"I can't, Bess; 'tis not in my line. I tell you what, though: your maid would be like her, if she was fair instead of brown, and if she had long hair."
"Making eyes at my maid, sir!" cried Mrs. Liddle, with a pretty wilfulness. "When I get you home, I shall lock you up."
Captain Liddle laughed, and pinched his wife's cheek.
"I am glad it was a love-match," she said; "I like Mr. Marvel all the better for that. You ought to do something for him."
"I shouldn't be surprised, Bessie, if Marvel was second mate on our next voyage," was the captain's reply. "Now go and see to the stowing away of your curiosities."
During the time that the "Merry Andrew" had been lying in Sydney Harbor, Mrs. Liddle and her gypsy maid had been living on shore, and had only come on board today. Her husband's last remark referred to a number of parcels which were scattered about the poop, containing curiosities she had collected in that strange new world--such as feathers and skins, and curious weapons and plants--designed to astonish her friends at home.
Captain Liddle's intention to promote Joshua had been quietly whispered by the sailors to one another for some weeks past, although the captain, from motives of prudence and a proper regard for discipline, had made no mention of his intention, even to his wife, until now. Captain Liddle respected Joshua, and often engaged him in familiar conversation. He saw much to admire in the young sailor, and recognized in him qualities, both intellectual and professional, of a far higher standard than those exhibited by his other officers. A sailor more deeply impressed than Joshua was with the highest qualification a sailor can possess, duty, never walked the deck of a ship; and this merit, added to a quick natural intelligence, made him a great favorite with Captain Liddle. He was much liked, also, by the sailors; for while his sense of duty made him firm, his kindliness of heart made him gentle. Sailors resemble women in one particular: the more they respect a man, the better they like him. Joshua, however, had two bitter enemies on board: one was the Lascar, who was compelled to conceal his hate; other was the second mate, Scadbolt by name, who made no secret of his animosity. Scadbolt, being both an inefficient officer and one who liked to shirk his work, had been sharply spoken to by Captain Liddle on several occasions. From this may have sprung the rumor of his intended deposition; and when it reached his ears, it made him venomous. Between Scadbolt and the Lascar about this time there sprang up a kind of intelligence with regard to Joshua, which boded him no good if he should chance to get into their power. No conversation passed between them on the subject; but each knew instinctively that the other hated the upstart third mate of the "Merry Andrew."
With his usual foresight and shrewdness, Captain Liddle had announced his readiness to take a small number of passengers to China, or to London by way of China--rather a roundabout route home, it must be confessed, but one which recommended itself to certain colonists from its novelty, and from the opportunity it afforded them of seeing something of the wonderful land where so many Sons of the Moon lived and had their being. Captain Liddle knew what he was about by stating that he could provide accommodation for only a few passengers, for only a few took passage. Here is the way-bill:--
Mr. and Mrs. Pigeon and daughter, the latter five years of age.
Mr. Bracegirdle.
Stephen and Rachel Homebush, brother and sister.
James Heartsease.
Harry Wall.
Rough-and-Ready.
So that there were nine passengers in all, including little Emma Pigeon.
The crew numbered twenty-eight persons, all told; and these, with the passengers and the captain's wife and her maid, made the total number of souls on board thirty-nine.
Mr. Pigeon was the son of a wealthy squatter, who had lately died. Desirous of giving his wife and child better advantages than could be obtained in the colony, he had sold out his property, and was now on his way home, for the purpose of settling in the "old country." He was a rough kind of a gentleman at the best, as might be expected of one who had been brought up in the bush; but he had a tender heart, and was passionately devoted to his wife and child. Mrs. Pigeon was a sparkling little creature, full of life and bustle, never still, and with a laugh so merry and contagious, that every soul on board felt glad when it was first heard on the ship. Little Emma, as the child was called, was a small edition of her mother, with precisely the same natural gayety of disposition. The family were in high glee at the prospect of going "home" (even Little Emma, born in the bush, had been taught so to call it), and found in the pleasures of imagination some compensation for the natural sorrow they felt in leaving the bright and beautiful land of the South.
Mr. Bracegirdle was a mystery. No one knew any thing about him; and as no one inquired, and he was not communicative, his antecedents could only be guessed at.
Stephen and Rachel Homebush were a hard-featured morose-looking couple, whose piety was generally recognized as unimpeachable, but whose good-nature was certainly open to question. And this induces the reflection, that it is singular how often piety and sourness go hand in hand. It almost seems as if, with the majority of so-called pious people, religious contemplation chills the generous impulse, and hardens the heart instead of softening it. The light of truth falls on them not like dew, but like a miasma.
James Heartsease and Harry Wall are bracketed in the way-bill, as they were bracketed in heart. They were friends who had travelled together all over the world. They were enthusiastic sketchers; and it was whispered that they were writing a book, which caused them to be looked up to with a kind of veneration.
Rough-and-Ready was as great a mystery as Mr. Bracegirdle, but whereas nothing was known of Mr. Bracegirdle's antecedents, so many stories were current concerning Rough-and-Ready, that the difficulty was to hit upon the right one. None of them were at all creditable to him. One story was, that he was a bushranger; another, that he was a stockman, who had shot down any number of blacks; another, that he was a runaway convict. The name he chose to go by fitted any one or all of these stories. He engaged his passage in the name of Mr. Rough; but before he had been on board half an hour, every sailor knew him as Rough-and-Ready. The lady passengers cast cold looks upon him; but the sailors adored him; and he, taking the aversion of the women and the admiration of the men very philosophically, was as much at home on board the "Merry Andrew" as the captain himself. Captain Liddle saw nothing objectionable in Rough-and-Ready. He was prone, as you know, to form his own judgments of people, and was one of the small minority of men in the world who decline to be led by the nose. There was nothing very smooth or polished about Rough-and-Ready, as was implied by his name; but he had a bright eye, a free manner, and a civil tongue--sufficient recommendations to Captain Liddle's good favor.
At the appointed time the "Merry Andrew" weighed anchor, and started for China. Joshua rubbed his hands, and thought with a light heart of his pretty Ellen and his friend Dan, and his old mother and father, and that good friend the Old Sailor. He saw himself walking along the familiar street in Stepney, and saw all the neighbors running out to greet him, and saw Ellen, his own dear little wife, fluttering into his arms, and nestling there as prettily as could be. What wonder that his face grew bright, and that he went about his work with a cheerfulness that brought a darker scowl into the face of the Lascar! This worthy had not advanced a single step towards the furtherance of the scheme to which he had in a sort of measure pledged himself to Solomon Fewster before he left Gravesend. True, he had gone on board the "Merry Andrew" with the vaguest of ideas as to the manner in which he should be able to carry out his intentions regarding Joshua. The fact was, that he had been only anxious to get away from England for a time; the brawl in which he had been engaged and had used his knife was a serious one, and he was frightened for his own safety. But he had played his cards cunningly with Solomon Fewster, and had succeeded in extracting money and valuables from his cowardly master; thus providing for his safety, and putting money in his purse at the same time. Joshua had kept a sharp eye upon him during the whole of the voyage, and he was compelled to be careful and wary for he knew that Joshua was a favorite with the captain, and that he would be clapped in irons upon the first sign of insubordination. Then he was disappointed in finding that not another sailor on board but himself owed Joshua a grudge, or was envious of him; so that he was alone in his hate until that instinctive understanding took place between him and the second mate Scadbolt, which made Joshua a mark for their mutual animosity. The Lascar would have dearly liked to do Joshua an ill turn; but he could not see his way to the accomplishment of his wish. But even from this thwarting of his desire he derived a kind of malicious satisfaction; for he could not help thinking with pleasure of the dismay and disappointment Solomon Fewster would experience when Joshua came home safe and sound. He could not help chuckling to himself as he thought, "What a way he'll be in when the 'Merry Andrew' gets into Blackwall, and how he'll storm and swear! But he'd better mind what he's about with me. I owe him one for that threat of giving me into custody for stealing the things he gave me." Certainly no such sentiment as "Honor among thieves" found place in the breast of the Lascar.
And Minnie? She had not calculated the effect of living within herself, as she had been compelled to do. Loving Joshua as she did with all her heart and soul, she had deceived herself by believing that she would be happy if she were only in the ship with him. Happy she would have been, had he known her and spoken kindly to her; but the gulf that divided them seemed to her to be wider than it would have been had thousands of miles of ocean been between them. She had time for reflection on board ship; and reflection, although it did not turn the current of her love, nor lessen it, added to her misery. At one time during the voyage she had been so unhappy that she was almost on the point of throwing herself overboard; and indeed had she known of the marriage between Joshua and Ellen she might really have done so. Happily for her she was not aware of the marriage, and was spared the contemplated sin. But she was on a rack of love and doubt, and was truly unhappy in the present, and despairing in the future. She went about her work in a dull mechanical way, keeping aloof from every one, and never going on deck unless her duties called her there. Mrs. Liddle saw that the poor girl was miserable, and questioned her. But here Minnie's rebellious nature came into play; she shut her heart against the proffered sympathy, and returned cold answers to her mistress's kind questions. Mrs. Liddle was sorry, but not offended; she saw that the girl was struggling with a great grief. "A love affair, depend upon it John," she said to her husband; and she respected Minnie's desire not to have her confidence openly intruded upon. Minnie's behavior on board inspired Mrs. Liddle with the conviction that her maid was a thoroughly good girl, and she could overlook a great deal in a girl who behaved so well. And notwithstanding Minnie's retired behavior, she was an object of interest to all. The officers and sailors called her "the shy beauty," "the pretty gypsy-maid," "the brown-faced little beauty;" and, when she came towards them with her eyes downcast, made way for her with almost as much deference as they did for the captain's wife. But she spoke no word to any one of them, and lived her life of self-imposed isolation in grief and silence.
The wind was fair, and a favorable voyage was anticipated. Sail after sail was clapped on, and Captain Liddle walked up and down the deck with a beaming face and in a state of high satisfaction. Five of the passengers were below in the first agonies of sea-sickness. Four were on deck--the two friends, James Heartsease and Harry Wall, Stephen Homebush, and Rough-and-Ready. The friends had travelled too many thousands of miles upon the ocean to be troubled by sea-sickness now; they had struggled with and vanquished that fell enemy years ago. Rough-and-Ready was not the sort of man to give in; he treated sea-sickness as he treated every thing else that came to him in a threatening shape--he laughed in its face. Perhaps previous experience enabled him to do so with impunity. Stephen Homebush was not so fortunate. He had a large stock of bile, and (speaking after the manner of a well-known great man) when he had got rid of a great deal, he would have a great deal left. He certainly got rid of a great deal upon this occasion; and accustomed as he was to wrestle against yearnings of the flesh and terrible foes, this foe was too powerful for him, and this yearning of the flesh sent him into a deep pit of tribulation from which he saw no chance of escape. Some kind friend had advised him not to go below when he was attacked; and in accordance with that advice he remained on deck, possessed by a spirit so fiendish as not only to set at naught the pious exhortations of the worthy Stephen, but even to change words of piety into utterances that sounded very like anathemas. Even in the midst of his agony, he looked round for some one, as was his wont in his happier moods, upon whom to pour the vials of his spleen; for Stephen Homebush had this peculiar conviction with respect to himself. His invariable verdict when tribulation visited other persons was, that it was a just punishment--it was a visitation of the Lord. But there was no such acknowledgment regarding any vexation by which he was afflicted. In that case his opinion was, that he was suffering for the sins of others, and the conviction was to him a sufficient proof of his own worthiness and of the wickedness and unworthiness of every other person. He looked round for some one on whom to vent his spleen; but no person met his eye but Rough-and-Ready, whose merry face and cheerful manner were an additional sting to the miserable Stephen. Rough-and-Ready nodded encouragingly to the pale-faced Stephen, who was leaning against the bulwarks, and said cheerfully, and really from no ill-natured motive--
"You will be better by and by, Mr. Homebush. Besides, it will do you good."
These last words were unfortunately chosen; for the afflicted Stephen--who had heard the discreditable stories attached to Rough-and-Ready, and who had already judged him as a sinner of the first magnitude--glared at the speaker, and said with difficulty, "Scoffer, sinner!"
He intended to add, "Repent!" but a sudden paroxysm compelled him to confide that exhortation to the waves.
Rough-and-Ready laughed gayly, and turning on his heel, met the captain, and fell into step with him.
"Some of the sailors are grumbling," observed Rough-and-Ready, "because we have set sail on a Friday."
"Grumble!" exclaimed Captain Liddle, pettishly. "Ay, and they'll grumble till the end of the voyage. I have had that sort of thing occur to me before. This is the fifth time I have started on a Friday, and nothing more unusual ever occurred than occurred at any other time. But the men wouldn't believe it, and won't believe it now. If a head-wind comes, it is because we set sail on a Friday; if we're becalmed, because we set sail on a Friday; if there's a squall, because we set sail on a Friday; if a man tumbles overboard, because we set sail on a Friday; if we lose a spar, if a sail is split, because we set sail on a Friday. I do believe, if one of them cuts his finger, he thinks, 'Curse the skipper! What the something unmentionable did he set sail on a Friday for?'"
"I have no doubt, skipper," said Rough-and-Ready, smiling and pointing to Stephen Homebush, whose head was hanging over the bulwarks, as if its owner were curiously interested in the swelling of the waves, "that Mr. Homebush is quite ready to side with the men, and to declare that he is sea-sick because you set sail on a Friday."
Captain Liddle smiled at the pious sufferer, and shrugged his shoulders. It was evident, although he said nothing upon the subject, that he had already formed a not too favorable opinion of Stephen Homebush.
For the first three days the prognostications of the sailors, that "something" was sure to happen because the voyage was commenced upon a Friday, did not seem likely to be realized. The weather was fine, the wind was fair, and every stitch of canvas was set. But the grumbling did not cease, and for a very good reason. Scadbolt and the Lascar did their best to keep the subject warm, and between them managed to foment and increase the dissatisfaction. Captain Liddle, cognizant of this, became stern and strict, and took but little rest. He did not know who it was that was encouraging the men; he suspected Scadbolt, and, estimating his second mate at his proper worth, he wanted but the slightest confirmation of his suspicions to take prompt action against the offender. By this time the passengers had recovered from their sea-sickness, and begun to assemble on the deck. Stephen and Rachel Homebush set to work vigorously in their task of reclaiming the sinners, in which category every person but themselves on board was included; but though they prayed (for others), and groaned (for others), and "wrestled" (for others), their efforts were not crowned with success. Indeed, the only person who tolerated them at all was the man who had the worst character, and whom nearly everybody avoided. Rough-and-Ready was a treasure to the pious couple. To him, as the most illustrious sinner within their reach, they imparted the knowledge of their own goodness and of everybody else's wickedness; him they informed that their special mission (out of heaven) was to lead him to the waters of grace, and that his special mission was to be led thereto by them. They prayed for him wrathfully, in stony voices, and would have wept over him, had he allowed them to do so. And when they found that they made no impression upon him (for it was only his good-nature that induced him to listen to them), they groaned the louder, and prayed the longer, and wrestled the more, because of the hardness of man's heart. It was a curious thing, seeing how good they were and how bad he was, to observe the conduct of Little Emma, Mrs. Pigeon's five-year-old daughter, towards the saints and the sinner. The little child ran away from the saints, and cried and struggled when Rachel Homebush took her hand; but when she saw the sinner, she ran into his arms with perfect confidence, and submitted to be tossed in the air and to be kissed by him very much as if she liked it. But then children have no judgment.
Towards the close of the third day the weather became threatening, and the sails were taken in. This set the grumblers at work more busily than ever. Some time before midnight, the watch being in charge of the second mate, Captain Liddle came unaware upon two of the men who were grumbling, and sternly asked them what they were grumbling at. The Lascar was one of the twain, and of course he did not reply; but the other man, being pressed by the captain, pulled at his forelock, and said that the sailors weren't pleased because the voyage had been commenced on their unlucky day.
"And that's the cause of this rough weather, eh?" questioned Captain Liddle sarcastically.
"Yes, your honor," was the reply. "Why, even the second mate says so."
"Does he?" cried Captain Liddle, turning wrathfully upon Scadbolt, who at that moment approached them. "What do you mean, Mr. Scadbolt, by spreading dissatisfaction among the crew?"
Brought face to face with the man to whom he had spoken, Scadbolt, who was no coward, gave him a threatening look, and said,--
"Well, sir, I've an objection to setting sail on Friday; and, as you see, the men have the same objection."
"I see quite enough to warn you to be careful," said Captain Liddle in a determined tone; "I have warned you before, and I warn you now for the last time. Keep your objections to yourself, sir, and trouble yourself only with your duty.--And you, men, attend to yours, and let me hear no more of this nonsense. You know me well enough to know that I will not be trifled with."
The men slouched away, and Scadbolt was obliged to suppress his passion for the time: but it burned the fiercer for that.
The next day the weather became worse, and circumstances thus gave a color to the dissatisfaction, which grew stronger every hour. But the captain was equal to both emergencies; like a good sailor and a stout captain he grappled with the storm that raged without, and with that scarcely less dangerous one that raged within. He was seldom off the deck, and when he did go down to snatch an hour's rest, he left Joshua on board to watch in his place. For Captain Liddle was not slow to discover that Joshua was the man of all the other men on the ship upon whose faithfulness he could best depend. He said this many times to his wife, and often spoke to her in praise of Joshua. Minnie heard this, and heard also of the dissatisfaction among the sailors, and how Scadbolt, the second mate, had fomented the dissatisfaction. About this time a whisper spread among the passengers that there were three or four sailors in the crew who only wanted a favorable opportunity to break into open mutiny. Confirmation of this was given by the captain, on the third day of the bad weather, when the ship was scudding along under bare poles. He, coming down hastily into the saloon, went into his cabin, and made his appearance in a few minutes with a belt buckled round his waist and two pistols in it. The passengers, looking at each other in astonishment, received another shock presently by the surprising appearance of Rough-and-Ready. His dress hitherto had been of a respectable character black coat and waistcoat and tweed trousers; but now he had on a red-serge shirt, and a rough billycock-hat, and buckskin riding-trousers, and boots that reached half-way up his thighs, and a red-silk sash round his waist, with knife and pistol stuck therein. You may guess the alarm he caused among the ladies; the only passenger who seemed pleased at the change in his appearance was little Emma Pigeon, who skipped round him delightedly, and clapped her hands in approval of his bright-colored shirt and sash. Rough-and-Ready caught the child in his arms and gave her a hearty kiss, and nodded cordially to the fellow-passengers who had so studiously avoided him. They were so frightened at his desperate appearance, that they forgot to frown upon him as they were wont to do. Rough-and-Ready then going on deck, walked up to Captain Liddle, and said,--
"You can depend upon me, skipper. I've seen this sort of thing before."
Captain Liddle gave him a look of grateful acknowledgment, and they made their way into the midst of a knot of sailors who were standing irresolutely about Scadbolt and Joshua. Joshua was cool but perplexed, and Scadbolt was in a furious rage.
"Whose watch is this?" asked Captain Liddle. He knew well enough, but he had a motive for asking.
"Mine, sir," answered Joshua.
"What are the men hanging about for?"
"I gave an order, sir, and Mr. Scadbolt countermanded it."
"Give your order again, Mr. Marvel."
Joshua did so; and as Scadbolt, in a voice thick with passion, was desiring the men not to obey it, Captain Liddle very promptly knocked him down. Calling two of the sailors by name, Captain Liddle ordered them to put the second mate in irons. After the confusion which followed the execution of this order had partially subsided, Captain Liddle cried out,--
"Now, then, what have you to complain of? Speak out like men."
At this one of the sailors stepped forward, and said respectfully,--
"Well, your honor, some of us think it would have been better if we had stopped in port another day."
"That's a matter of opinion," said the captain. "You have a right to yours, but I have a right to mine also; and I am master of this ship. Now I ask you as sensible men and good sailors, is it right that you should forget your duty because we don't agree upon a certain point? Do you know what this means my men?" pointing to Scadbolt. "It means mutiny. What would any one of you do if you were skipper in my place You would put a stop to it at once, as I have done, and as I intend to do. I'll do it by reason, if you'll let me, and I'll say nothing of any other means, for I don't want to use them. I speak you fair, men, and I mean you fair. What do you say, now, to treating me as I treat you?"
Acquiescent murmurs ran round the crew, most of whom had gathered together during the scene. "And at such a time as this too," continued Captain Liddle, "though it would be all the same in fair weather or foul. I'll tell you something that many of you, as good mariners, suspect already. We are near a dangerous coast--how near I do not know, for I have not been able to take a sight for two days. And it's at such a time as this that this bad sailor--I found out before we got into the Bay of Biscay that he wasn't as good as he ought to be--it's at such a time as this that he tries to get you into trouble. Come, now, have I spoke you fair?"
"Yes, you have; spoke like a man!" a dozen voices said.
"That's well said. Whoever is on my side step over to me."
Every man--even the Lascar, too much of a coward to stand aloof--stepped to the captain's side and saluted him.
"I'm proud of my crew," was the captain's simple remark after this. "Now go to your duty."
As the captain walked on to the poop, Rough-and-Ready said,
"That was well done, skipper; but there are two or three black sheep among 'em, for all that."
"I know it," replied Captain Liddle, with a significant look. "I shall keep a sharp look-out on them. I've got a man on board that's a match for a dozen black sheep, or I'm very much mistaken."
Rough-and-Ready laughed and turned on his heel, and Captain Liddle went down to say an encouraging word to his wife.
On the eighth day the captain, suspecting that they were in the vicinity of the Minerva Shoal, near which there were some dangerous rocks, ordered a sharp lookout to be kept for broken water. All the passengers were by this time in a state of great alarm, and although Captain Liddle tried to cheer them by encouraging words, his anxious face belied his speech. Perhaps the one who suffered the most from terror was Stephen Homebush. His terror was so great that he forgot his mission, and flew to others for consolation, instead of imparting it. Such men as he are most true to their calling when the weather is fine. It was a miserably dark night. The captain, completely tired out, had gone down to his cabin for a little rest. All the passengers, with the exception of Rough-and-Ready, who never seemed to sleep, and yet was the freshest man of them all, had retired to their beds with hearts filled by gloomy forebodings of what the morrow might bring; and there they lay, tossing about, listening to the raging wind that was driving them perhaps to certain death. In the captain's cabin were Mrs. Liddle and her maid. There was something in the present danger that was to Minnie almost a relief from the horrible monotony of her life. Her self-imposed silence had become unbearable, and she fretted under it until her health was in danger of giving way. So that this change, with all its terrors and uncertainties, was an absolute relief to her. She was too sad and unhappy to be frightened at the prospect of death. Had the future held out to her any hope of happiness, she would have prayed to live; but as it was--"Better to die," she thought, "and so end all." There is no doubt that this miserable state of her mind was due to the want of proper moral training in her childhood. Thrown completely upon herself; with no mother's love to teach her what is often taught by love's instinct alone, that such and such impulses and thoughts are weeds that destroy, and such and such are flowers that beautify: doomed to the almost sole companionship of a father whose misfortunes had rendered him an unfit teacher, it is scarcely to be wondered at that she should have been oblivious of the true duty of life.
"Bessie," said Captain Liddle to his wife, "I have come down for an hour's sleep. I can rest with confidence, for Marvel is keeping the watch."
Mrs. Liddle nodded, and gave him a sweet little smile that was like wine to him; and Minnie heard him say, in answer to a whisper from his wife, "We are in God's hands, Bessie, and must trust to His mercy." "We are in God's hands, and must trust to His mercy," thought Minnie as she left the cabin; "and Joshua is keeping the watch. Death may be very near. Will it be wrong to speak to him?" Mechanically she made her way to the deck, stumbling two or three times and bruising herself. But she felt no pain. "I should like to die near him," she thought; "if he would take my hand in his, I should be content and happy."
Nothing but darkness surrounded her on deck. She clung to a rope, appalled by the mournfulness of the scene. Not a star was to be seen in the heavens, and the sky and water were as black as the night. So solemn, so mournful was every thing around, that the ship seemed to be rushing into a pit of death, where no light was. She could not see her hand before her, but all at once her heart beat wildly at the sound of Joshua's voice. He was speaking to Rough-and-Ready, and they were quite near her, although she had not seen them. Even now she could but barely discern their forms in the gloom. Joshua had just made a remark that Rough-and-Ready must have been a great traveller.
"Yes," answered Rough-and-Ready, "I've been about a pretty great deal. I've led a wild life; but then, you see, I never had any one to care for but myself."
"Never?" questioned Joshua, in a tone that had a dash of pity in it.
"Never but once, and that was only for a little while. But what matters? It will be all one by and by."
"I should be sorry to think you meant that," continued Joshua; "it would be a sad belief that, at such a time as this."
"You speak as if you didn't believe it, at all events," said Rough-and-Ready, in tones as soft as a girl's; "but then your circumstances are different to mine. You are young; I am"--
"Not old."
"Old enough for twice your years. Then you have friends at home, mayhap?"
"Ay, dear ones."
"Mother and father?"
"Ay; God bless them!"
"Wife perhaps?"
Joshua gave a gasp that sounded almost like a cry of pain.
"Ah, well," continued Rough-and-Ready, "if we were to go down this minute, I don't know the man or woman who would say 'Poor fellow!' when my fate was known. I leave no one behind me, and my death would bring no grief to a single soul. Perhaps my condition is the happier of the two."
"Not so," said Joshua sadly; "and I hope--indeed I believe--that you don't mean what you say. I have a friend at home--Dan, his name--to whom the news of my death would be the bitterest grief. I have dear ones at home, whose lives would be lives of mourning if I were not to return. I know this, and feel the pain that they would experience should it be God's will that we are not to escape this peril. But, strange as it may sound, I would not spare them the pain if it were in my power. Could I, by a wish, destroy the memories that make my life dear to me and them--dearer than you imagine--and so pluck from their hearts and minds the sting that my death would bring to them, I would not do so. For after death, there is life!"
"You believe in the immortality of the soul, mate?"
"Surely; and you?"
Rough-and-Ready made no reply.
"'Tis often difficult to believe in what we don't understand. On such a night as this--bleak, dreary, awfully solemn--with death waiting for us within a few yards perhaps--it is difficult to believe that there are spots on the earth where the sun is shining and where the flowers are blooming."
"That's true, mate; you speak more like a scholar than a sailor. Shake hands."
"I learned a great deal from the friend of whom I have spoken," said Joshua, grasping Rough-and-Ready's hand. "What is that ahead of us?"
A dark cloud. Impossible to see whether it belonged to earth, or air, or water. A moment after he uttered the words, the man who was keeping the look-out cried that there was land ahead. Joshua hastily gave some orders, and was making his way to the saloon to arouse the captain, when he was almost thrown off his legs by a terrible shock. Involuntarily he threw his arms around Minnie, who was clinging to the rope. She held him fast for a moment, and he cried,--
"Who is this?"
"It is me," she said; "cling to me."
"Don't stir," he whispered rapidly, filled with a wild amazement at the familiar tones of Minnie's voice; "if it were not that I know I am not dreaming, I could believe a spirit spoke, and not a woman. But keep you here; do not move for your life."
The next instant all was confusion, and cries and lamentations filled the air. Captain Liddle was on deck barefooted, and all the passengers were there in their nightdresses, clinging to ropes and spars, praying and crying and wringing their hands. Great seas washed over the ship, drowning the cries for a brief time; the night was so dark that their true situation could not be discovered, and imagination added to their terrors and magnified them. The captain could do literally nothing; for the ship appeared to have been lifted on to the rocks, and kept bumping against them in its endeavors to get free. And yet there was sea all around them. Some of the passengers had sought shelter under the lee of the cuddy, among them the captain's wife, Mr. and Mrs. Pigeon and Little Emma, and Steven and Rachel Homebush. Many times during the night was the voice of Stephen Homebush heard, calling upon the Lord to save him; while his sister Rachel, braver than he, stood by his side, with a stern set face, in silence. The cheery laugh of Mrs. Pigeon was stilled, but she was not so overcome by terror as not to be a comfort to her husband and child; during the dark night those three clung together and comforted each other as well as they were able; while the captain, making his way from one group to another, bade them not lose heart; for the ship seemed to be keeping together, and when daylight came their condition might be found to be less desperate than it appeared.
"Besides," he whispered to the male passengers, "we have three or four rascals among the sailors, and for the sake of the women we must keep ourselves cool and self-possessed."
To his wife he said simply,--
"Well, Bessie, this is a bad job. I ought not to have allowed you to come with me."
"I would sooner be here with you, John," she said, kissing him, "than I would be at home in safety."
"Brave little heart," he whispered to himself as he walked away from her. "Yet I could bear it better if I were alone."
James Heartsease and Harry Wall kept together, as friends should, all through the night. They felt not a particle of fear; they thought it was very grand and very awful, and spoke in calm tones of what the morrow might bring.
"Don't think we shall see China, Jim," said Harry.
"Perhaps not. Hope no body will be hurt," was the reply. "What a grand painting this would make!"
A few minutes after Joshua had left Minnie, he came to the cuddy, where Mrs. Liddle had sought protection.
"Mr. Marvel," she called to him, "have you seen my maid?"
Then it came upon him that the woman to whom he had clung when the ship struck was the gypsy-maid who had kept herself so reserved, and he said, "Yes my lady; do you want her?"
All the officers called the captain's wife "my lady," and she was proud of the title.
"Yes," she answered; "I wish you could bring her to me, poor girl; she is friendless and unhappy, poor child!"
"Has she no friends at home, my lady?" Joshua could not help asking.
"None, I believe."
The word "home" reached little Emma Pigeon's ears, and as she nestled in her mother's arms, the child cried, "Mother, are we going home?"
"Yes, yes, my dear," sobbed Mrs. Pigeon; "try to go to sleep, there's a darling." And she rocked the child, and sang a little song about birds and angels.
Joshua, steadying himself as he walked cautiously to where Minnie was standing, wondered to himself whether it was fancy that had made the gypsy-maid's voice sound so familiar to him; a sea washing over the deck, drenched him to the skin, and as he stood upright and shook the water from his clothes, the memories that were stirred within him brought to him a picture of the dear old kitchen at Stepney, with himself half-naked, barefooted, and with the water streaming from him, standing at the door. The vision may have occupied but a moment, but the picture was complete; father, mother, Ellen, Dan and the birds, the Old Sailor, all were there. But where was Minnie? Why, by his side, with short curly hair and brown gypsy-face. "Am I mad?" he exclaimed, as he dashed the waters from his eyes. But when he reached the spot where Minnie stood, and she clasped his hand and said, "Thank God, you are safe!" his amazement grew.
"I cannot see your face," he whispered, with his arm round her, for the better protection of both; "but your voice is strangely familiar to me. Do I know you?"
"Yes. But do not press me farther. Wait till the light comes. Shall we live till then?"
"I hope so."
"Will you promise me to keep near me till daylight comes? It is my dearest wish--my only one."
"I promise," he said, strangely agitated, "until my duty calls me away."
"And even then, you will come back when you have done your task, and stand by my side?"
"I will, my poor girl. I have come now to bring you to the captain's lady."
"She sent you for me?"
"Yes."
"She is a good lady. But wait a little; I have something to say first." Many moments passed before she spoke again, and in the pause a grateful prayer went up from the girl's heart even for the small blessing of gentle speech from her hero's lips. "You have made me very, very happy. Until tonight--for many, many months past--I have been most unhappy." She bent her lips to his hand and kissed it. "Now answer me. We are in great peril?"
"The greatest, I fear."
"But a danger threatens you of which you are not aware. Listen. The second mate, he who was put in irons the other day"--
"Scadbolt--go on."
"Is loosed."
"By whom?"
"I don't know. But he is loosed, and but five minutes since was near me with a sailor whom I think I know, although I could not see him. Listen. I must whisper, for he may be near us now. They were talking of you, and they swore--O my God!--they swore to have your life."
"They spoke of me by name?"
"By name--Joshua Marvel."
"You think you know the sailor who was talking to Scadbolt. Is he a dark man?"
"Yes; a Lascar I think."
"You are right. He owes me an old grudge."
"Scadbolt said that this coast is one of the most dangerous upon which a ship could strike. He believes he knows pretty well where we are, and that it will be a fight for the boats"--
"We have only two, the jolly-boat and the longboat; he may be right."
"Be on your guard; tell the captain; be prepared."
"We will; and you"--
"I can protect myself. Feel this."
"A knife!"
"I picked it up. Let them beware."
Another lurch of the vessel made them cling closer to each other. During all the horror of the scene, Joshua had not dared to ask whether it really was Minnie to whom he was speaking; he feared to know the truth. Minnie on the ship with him! and Ellen at home--and Dan--he dared not think of it.
"Come," he said; "I will take you to the captain's lady. Cling fast to me."
"Say a few words to me."
"What are they?"
"God bless and forgive you."
"God bless and forgive you! From my heart."
"He will, I think," said the girl, as if communing with herself. "I have not felt so happy for a long time past. Death has no terror for me if you are kind!"