Leaves from a middy's log

It was not long before I recovered my senses. When I did so, I found that I was stretched upon the ground, and that the surgeon was bending over me bathing my temples with water.

“That’s right, youngster!” he cried encouragingly; “I knew you wouldn’t take long to come round, though Balfour declared you were shamming just to excite our sympathy.”

Memory returned in a flash.

I sat up without assistance, and gazed about me with great curiosity.

Close to me, and reclining against a convenient hillock, was my friend Charlie. He still looked ghastly pale, and his bandaged head seemed to add to the impression; but he was evidently better, and there was life in his handsome dark eyes. At his feet lay my revolver and the cutlass I had given him. Stretched on the ground at the distance of some yards were the bodies of our late enemies, now powerless for evil.

“That chap must have taken your wind jolly well, Jack,” said my friend, pointing to one of the corpses; “but you may thank your stars that he didn’t take your life. By Jove, he went for you like a wild beast!”

“How did it happen?” I asked in a rather bewildered manner. “Who shot him, and where did the pistol come from?”

“Balfour will never tell you,” remarked the surgeon, whose name was Grant; “he’s much too modest a fellow. The truly brave and the truly great are not given to blowing their own trumpets. I’m afraid I’m just the opposite, and blow a tremendous blast on mine whenever an opportunity offers. Not having been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I have to—”

“Blow upon a silver trumpet,” interrupted Charlie rather rudely.

“Ah, I see you’re recovering rapidly,” said Dr. Grant good-naturedly, giving me at the same time a sly wink.

“But do you mean to say that Charlie shot him!” I exclaimed excitedly; “he had no firearms.”

“Ah, that’s where the story comes in,” said the surgeon with a laugh. “Balfour saw that you were about to be spitted upon yonder fellow’s sword, and also saw that I was engaged in a desperate hand-to-hand conflict with the other villain, and was powerless to render you any assistance; so what does he do but crawl out and gain possession of the revolver which had been dashed from your hand at the first shock of conflict—as Sir Walter Scott would have said. To his delight he found that there was still one cylinder loaded; but there was not a second to lose, for your end was at hand. The deadly shot was fired, and so truly sped the bullet to its billet that the fellow for whom it was destined fell dead without so much as a cry or a groan. It was a masterpiece. I’ve no hesitation in saying so, upon my word.”

“Charlie,” I cried emphatically, “you’re the best chum I ever had, and I owe my life to you!”

“What nonsense!” exclaimed Charlie. “Do you suppose I was going to sit still and see you stuck like a pig? Not if I know it, old chap.”

“And he was almost too weak to crawl,” I said, turning to Dr. Grant. “It was splendid of him!” and my eyes filled with tears.

“We may all thank God for our narrow escape,” said the surgeon; “at one time I thought I had myself caught a Tartar.”

At this moment the air was rent with loud halloos and triumphant shouts, and we saw the officers and men of our little naval brigade pouring down over the embankment of the fort.

In five minutes they were around us, listening to our story and detailing their own.

“The beggars have fled in all directions into the interior,” said Mr. Thompson in conclusion. “We’ve spiked their guns, and taken a number of prisoners, arms, and ammunition.”

“That’s very creditable and satisfactory as far as it goes,” said Dr. Grant, rather dryly; “but the principal question to my mind is, what has become of the valuable cargo which is known to have been on board the Flying-fish when the mutineers seized her?”

“Why, what a croaker you are!” exclaimed the lieutenant laughingly. “I should say that the so-called valuable cargo is at the present moment safely in the hold of the Flying-fish.”

“I very much doubt it,” said the surgeon laconically; “but we won’t argue the point now, as I am anxious to get the wounded on board the Rattler with as little delay as possible, and I daresay you won’t be sorry to get rid of your prisoners.”

The lieutenant looked thoughtful as he marched off with his men, and it occurred to me that he was wondering whether the merchantman had been entirely abandoned by her crew, and whether or not Captain Graves had sent a boat to ascertain the fact during our absence on shore.

Charlie was put on a stretcher and carried carefully down to the place of embarkation, but I was now sufficiently recovered to walk with the occasional assistance of the surgeon’s arm. In half an hour we were all safely on board the Rattler again, and Mr. Thompson at once went to make his official report to the captain. I accompanied my friend below, and saw him snugly ensconced in a cot in the sick-bay.

The operations ashore had taken place rather late in the afternoon, and the sun had already begun to sink in the west when we returned on board the frigate. I had now quite recovered from the effects of my adventure, and was ravenously hungry and thirsty; so after administering some beef-tea to Charlie, I repaired to the gunroom to get some tea, during which meal I had to relate over and over again to those of my messmates who had been debarred from joining the expedition the story of our hairbreadth escape.

“We had a mild kind of excitement while the landing-party was ashore,” observed one of my brother-middies, as he looked disconsolately into a nearly empty pot of marmalade.

“What was that?” I asked, hacking away viciously at a huge loaf. “I suppose you had a rat hunt in the bread-room with the commander’s dog and the ship’s cat.”

“It would have been a case of ‘the dog that worried the cat that killed the rat,’ I should say, if we had gone in for that sort of sport,” answered my messmate laughingly.—“Steward, bring me a pot of strawberry jam.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense any longer,” I said impatiently, “or you’ll take all my appetite away; honour bright.”

“Darcy’s off his feed, you fellows!” shouted my teasing brother-middy, whose name was Fitzgerald; “and I can positively count his ribs through his waistcoat.—Steward, bring a soup-tureen of oatmeal porridge in this direction and a few gallons of buttermilk, for there’s a young gentleman here at the last gasp for want of nourishment.”

The steward at this moment entered the mess with the pot of strawberry jam which had been ordered; but before he could deposit it upon the table in front of Fitzgerald, I had snatched it from the tray and placed it by the side of my own plate. Then seizing a large table-spoon, and without even looking at the rightful owner of the preserve, I made a pretence of digging out an enormous spoonful of it for my own special gratification.

“O you greedy beggar!” shouted Fitzgerald, starting up and trying to snatch his property from me. “Even if you were more like a skeleton than you are, you’ve no business to grub away at another fellow’s jam like that.”

But I put one firm hand upon the jam-pot, and waved him away with the other which held the spoon.

“Spin your yarn and eat your jam, or hold your tongue and see it go into my capacious maw,” I said, grinning at him. “You pay your money and take your choice, old man.”

Fitzgerald laughed. “I’d like awfully to punch your head, Darcy, but unluckily fighting isn’t allowed in the mess. The yarn is short, I’m thankful to say, and so you won’t have much time to stow away my jam in that horrid ‘capacious maw’ of yours. Well, as the story is wrung out of me, I must tell you that whilst you were on shore pretending to scrimmage with the mutineers and their allies, we manned the remaining boats, and under the commander’s orders boarded the Flying-fish. I was in the gig, and was on the tiptoe of expectation, wondering whether we should meet with resistance, or find the ship entirely deserted. The commander told us that he hoped at any rate to gain possession of the valuable cargo which was supposed to have fallen into the hands of the mutineers, and which was reported to be worth many thousands of pounds. Imagine our disgust, then, when we clambered up the side and found that the ship was nothing more nor less than an empty and deserted hulk. Every bit of the cargo that was of any value had been removed ashore, and the only living beings we found on board were the second mate and the boatswain, and they had been securely put in irons long before the Flying-fish had entered the creek. Of course, we immediately released the poor fellows, and found them half dead from exhaustion and semi-starvation. It was they, of course, who told us about the cargo having been taken out of the ship, and they added that they were positive that in some way the mutineers had heard that a British cruiser was on the look-out for them, most probably through their insurgent friends ashore.”

“No doubt that was it,” I said, “and they took the precaution of hiding their ill-gotten gains away in some inaccessible place up country well-known to the rebels.”

“My pot of strawberry jam, please,” said Fitzgerald austerely, and holding out his hand in what I considered rather a peremptory manner.

“I’ve a good mind to levy blackmail,” I cried, flourishing my big spoon; “but on second thoughts I’ll be magnanimous, and hand it over intact. It’s awfully good-natured of me!”

Fitzgerald was still more “awfully good-natured,” for after helping himself in what I considered a very lavish manner, he handed me over the crock with a lordly air and the very unnecessary remark, “Help yourself, old chap, but leave us a scraping at the bottom.”

It was my first watch that night, and I was pacing the deck in a somewhat dreamy state, and longing for midnight to arrive that I might be enabled to turn in, when I saw the gunner, Mr. Triggs, ascend the main hatchway, walk to the starboard entry-port, and gaze out upon the moonlit waters of the roadstead.

“Well, Mr. Triggs, how are you this evening?” I said, accosting him. “None the worse for the shindy on shore, I hope?”

“Not a bit, thank you, Mr. Darcy. Didn’t get a scratch, I’m thankful to say; and now I’m only hoping that I may have the good luck to see a bit more service ashore.”

“I’m afraid we won’t get the chance again in a hurry,” I answered. “It isn’t every day that crews mutiny on the high seas.”

“Ah, you haven’t heard the news then,” said the gunner with a chuckle. “It isn’t often I score off you like that.”

“What news?” I asked excitedly. “Do tell me, Mr. Triggs.”

“Well, I don’t know, I’m sure, if I oughtn’t to keep it to myself,” answered the gunner, trying to look very solemn. “Maybe ’twould be strong meat for babes, so to speak.”

“You’re positively insulting, Mr. Triggs! The midshipmen of the Rattler will hold a drumhead court-martial on you to-morrow if I’m not mistaken, and you may depend upon it the sentence will be a severe one.”

“I’m beginning to shake in my shoes at the very prospect of such a thing,” said the gunner, with a laugh; “and as I’m a married man with a family, I think I ought to be excused if I cave in.”

“Confide in me, and the matter shall go no further,” I exclaimed, with a patronizing air.

“I think I must have a couple of whiffs before I turn in,” said the gunner, proceeding to light his pipe. “’Tis against orders, I’m aware, but I rely on you, Mr. Darcy, not to split upon me to the officer of the watch.”

“You may smoke till you’re black in the face,” I rejoined irreverently, “so long as you heave ahead and tell me what I want to know.”

“You midshipmen are a terribly impatient lot of mortals—”

“That’s better than being prosy and tedious,” I interrupted. “Steam ahead full speed, Mr. Triggs, and keep a look-out for shoals.”

“So impatient that you’d try the temper of the quietest cow that ever chewed the cud,” continued the gunner emphatically; “and as to repartee, I’m jiggered if I think an Irish car-driver wouldn’t be out of the running with the dullest of you. Well, I’ll relieve your curiosity, Mr. Darcy, and the yarn is just this. Mr. Osborne, the surgeon of the Flying-fish, told our assistant-surgeon, who had been a-doctoring of his foot, that the captain had been questioning him about the value of the cargo that the mutineers had seized, and had mentioned that it was his intention to endeavour to track the rascals down and recover the booty. On the top of that I had a message late in the evening from the gunnery lieutenant that an armed expedition up country was in contemplation, and requesting me to keep a weather eye lifting on stores and ammunition and such like.”

“What perfectly splendid news!” I cried excitedly; “but I wonder if I’ve the remotest chance of being appointed to the force.”

“You were knocked about a bit in the scrimmage ashore, weren’t you?” asked the gunner.

“Yes; but I’m not incapacitated for duty,” I said, “or I shouldn’t be keeping watch now. It was my chum Charlie Balfour who was seriously hurt, poor fellow.”

“I believe it’s considered a bit feverish up country, Mr. Darcy, and that may put a stopper on any midshipmen going; but I’m sure I heartily wish you good-luck, and your chum a speedy recovery.” And so saying, Mr. Triggs knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and went below to turn in.

What exciting dreams I had that night!