CHAPTER VII.
"THREE CHEERS FOR CAPTAIN EGERTON!"
"IF you please, Captain Egerton, may I say a few words to you, private?" said Gideon Terlizzeck to the captain, who was standing by the side, gazing down into the dark blue water.
The "Imogene" was at sea again.
"Eh, Terlizzeck? Yes, of course. Here—or will you come to my cabin?"
"I'll come to your cabin by-and-by, sir, if I may."
"No time like the present, Gideon. We'll go there now."
The captain led the way and Gideon followed, both silent. But Gideon's lips were moving, and if his captain did not hear his voice, it was heard by Him to whom the old man spoke.
The captain laid aside his sword and cap and seated himself.
"There's a chair close to you, Gideon," said he. "Well, old friend, what do you want?"
Gideon did not sit down. He had taken off his straw hat, and now stood passing it absently round and round in his hands. At last he said—
"I don't think, sir, that I'm over-doing of it when I say that what I want you to give me is a life—and a soul."
"What do you mean, Gideon?"
"That there unfortunate boy, Tom Adderley, sir."
"Why, surely you know that his life is in no danger?"
"Not in the way you mean, sir. But if I may be so bold as speak out, sir, I think I can show you that what I said is true."
"Speak out, Gideon. I have known you all my life; you've sailed with me four times, and I rather think I owed you my life in that brush with the Malay pirates when I was a lieutenant. I know what a good old fellow you are, and I'm quite ready to listen to whatever you have to say. But I am rather surprised to find you interested in this young Adderley."
"Well, I am, sir. The boy has good in him, and he's been unfort'nate. Just let me tell you his story, sir. He comes from a place some days' journey inland from Liverpool; and being set on, seems to me, by an old man as lived there, to want to see the world and make a fortune, Tom ran off and shipped on that there merchant ship."
With this beginning Gideon told the tale of Tom's saving, and its object; his determination after four years of sailoring to go home, and his misery when he was not only prevented doing so, but lost his precious hoard. Very simply, but not unskilfully, was the story told.
"Now, sir, I took to the lad from the first; seemed to me he wanted a friend so bad. And I've talked to Carr and the other fellows that know him, and I find he was held to be the best and smartest man, all round, on board of that there trader, and Carr's a good man himself and knows what he is talking of. And—you'll acknowledge this, captain—the lad got hard lines."
"Very unlucky his losing that money—very."
"And being pressed, captain? You know I love the service, but I came of my own free will."
"Oh, come, Gideon," said the captain, laughing; "I can't allow that, you know. We 'must' get men."
"Yes, but one willing man is worth ten pressed men. And, captain, if you'd be so good as overlook this—this—folly of poor young Tom's, it's a willing man I do believe you might make of he. He's far from a bad lad. If you'd jaw him a bit, and get his promise to do better if you let him off; I'll be his surety he'll keep his word. And if Tom Adderley's flogged, sir, there's an end of he. He won't be alive in a month; he won't, indeed. If you'd 'a seen and heard him the time Callcutt was punished! Why, he were mad for a bit, and said plain and out that he'd never outlive such disgrace. He's proud, poor fellow, and—oh, sir, I do beseech you, spare him if you can."
"But how can I, Gideon? The fellow hides and lets us sail without him, and from what I can hear he was quite sober, and fully meant to escape altogether. Think of the example. You know I am not inclined to punish severely, but I really think Adderley must be made an example of. I'll give him only two dozen?"
"Oh, sir, one dozen would be as bad as six. It's the disgrace. There's some that never seem to think about it; there's some it kills, or drives to death, anyhow. I saw that long ago, before you entered the service, sir. 'Twas a man from my own place, and he were above the common, being one as had some education. Sir, he drowned himself, though we was watching him because we didn't like his looks. And this boy is such another for pride; and he's not twenty yet, and has a mother at home!"
"I don't see that I can do it, Terlizzeck."
"Sir, the old nigger that showed where he was hid told Mr. Carteret that when Tom stayed ashore the night before, it was because he was too ill to stir. Now, if you had him up private, and gave him a wigging, and then offered him another chance, why, Tom isn't likely to talk about it all, and the story that he was ill would come for to be believed."
"'You' don't believe it, Gideon?"
"No, sir, I'm sorry to say, I do not. But if you saw him, sir, sitting there silent—hardly eats a bit and never speaks—if he isn't ill, he's in a fair way to be. I do believe he were mad to try such a fool's trick, and that he's mad with himself now for having done it."
There was a short silence; then Gideon spoke again.
"Captain Egerton, I'm sorry I said that. You've the right to judge, sir, whether you can overlook his fault or not, and I know that the good of one lad must give way to the good of the ship's company and the service. Besides, if it's right to do it, it won't need hiding. Moreover, that wasn't an upright notion of mine, and I'm ashamed of it. But, captain, I've served man and boy, forty-seven years and three months, and did never ask a favour before that I can call to mind, beyond a day's leave at times; and my heart is wonderful set on Tom Adderley."
Captain Egerton got up, and walked up and down the very limited space at his command, once or twice. Then, sitting down again, he said—
"Terlizzeck, I will not refuse your request. I wish it to be known that Adderley is spared because you interceded for him. I fear I shall more than ever get the credit in the service of being too lenient, but I'll risk that, as you think it may be the saving of this young fellow. You'll keep an eye on him, Gideon."
"Sir, I do truly not know how to thank you!"
"If the lad turns out well, it is I that shall have to thank you. Just pass the word for the prisoner to be brought here, will you? And say to knock off the irons."
Gideon went and gave the necessary orders, and in about ten minutes the door was again opened, and Tom Adderley, being shoved into the cabin, stood where his guard left him, apparently not seeing where he was.
TOM STARTED, AND CRIED OUT HURRIEDLY,
"AM I TO BE FLOGGED?"
"You may go, my men. Leave Adderley here."
Captain Egerton looked at the prisoner for a few moments without speaking. Poor Tom! It was hard to believe just now that he had ever been a bright, active, intelligent sailor. His curly hair was all matted over his forehead; his face was deadly white, with a dull look of despair in it; his eyes were dazzled by the sudden light, so that he could scarcely open them.
"Adderley," began the captain.
Tom started, and cried out hurriedly, "Am I to be flogged?"
"What do you expect?" asked the captain.
Tom's head sank upon his breast.
"It don't matter what I expect," he said. "They'll never hear of it at home."
"Adderley, Gideon Terlizzeck has been speaking to me for you. Now, if I were to offer you another chance, will you promise me solemnly to behave so well that I may feel justified in having spared you?"
"I don't understand," said Tom, looking up.
"If I forgive you, and let you go back to duty, will you for the future do your best, and work willingly and well?"
"Forgive me? Do you mean that you won't flog me?"
"I do. At Gideon's earnest request, I have promised to overlook this offence. He answers for you, that for the future you will do better."
Tom staggered back, and, but for coming against the cabin door, would have fallen. His chest heaved; he covered his face with his hands and stood silent for a few moments. Then his arms fell; he straightened himself, and looked full in his captain's face.
"If ever I can die for you, or for Gideon, I'll do it, willing and free. It's not the pain—I'm not afraid of that—it's the shame of it. Yes, sir; I'll do my very best from this hour."
"Very good, Adderley. Take him with you, Terlizzeck. I'll give orders about him. Now, mind, Adderley; no more sulking."
"Never no more, sir," said Tom, half crying. "Oh, Gideon, you've saved my life."
From that hour, the only trouble with Tom Adderley was a fear that in his new-born zeal he would get himself killed by some too venturesome proceeding. As to the way in which his eyes followed the captain's movements, and the frequency of his "Yes, sir," even to the smallest mid, these were only to be equalled by his patience in listening to Gideon's reading, and to the rather long-winded and misty homilies the dear old man preached for his benefit. These poor Tom only dimly understood, but there was nothing he would not have done to please Gideon.
And he was surprised to find how much happier he was, too. He was busy, and every one was pleased with him. This was pleasanter than sulking and idling. Then, too, he felt the warmest gratitude to both Gideon and Captain Egerton. And, fallen as man is, there is this much of the original "Image" left in him—he is happier when his good feelings are called into play, than when his poor dark heart is full of hatred.
One day, about a fortnight or three weeks after Tom's release, the look-out man proclaimed that he saw a sail. Great was the excitement. Was it a Frenchman? But it proved to be a little English brig. "The wickedest little gun-brig in the service, and the sauciest," as old Gideon said, when she came near enough to be recognized—the "Warspite," commanded by a young lieutenant named Yeo, who signalled that he wanted to come on board and speak to Captain Egerton.
A little boat was soon spinning over the water, and Mr. Yeo came on board. He sprang up the side followed by a very small midshipman, who, with a somewhat older youth, represented Mr. Yeo's "officers."
"Look," whispered Gideon to Tom, "how Mr. Carteret and Mr. Bullen do gaze at Mr. Yeo."
"So I see. But why? Seems to me he's only a lieutenant, too."
"But has a separate command, Tom, and he only five and twenty. Nephew, he is, to our admiral. Our two junior lieutenants would give ten years to stand in his shoes. What's that? What are they cheering for?"
Gideon was cleaning the captain's fowling-piece, and did not like to leave it.
"I'll go forward and see," said Tom.
He came back with Greg Collier and a lot more of the men in a few minutes.
"Gideon, there's great news," said he.
"Eh, old Gid! What d'ye think? But we're at war with America!" cried Collier. "Think of 'that' for impudence, and she without a big ship belonging to her!"
"Well, well," said Gideon, "I be sorry. They can fight, I can tell you that; ay, as dogged as we can. And it do not seem Christian-like to kill and slay men as speaks English like ourselves."
"I don't know about that," said Collier. "But you're not the old Gid Terlizzeck if you don't feel your anger rise at the next bit of news. What do you think? But a Yankee frigate attacked the old 'Corinna,' thirty-four guns, Captain Harry Hervey—just let 'em know they was at war, and then went bang at her; ay, and towed her into New York after a blazin' fight. Captain badly wounded and a prisoner—he's out of the way. Then Admiral Sir George Kinnaird is dead—yellow Jack it was—and Captain Egerton, of this here blessed old 'Imogene,' is senior officer on the station, till a new admiral comes out."
"You don't say so, Collier!" cried Gideon. "Why, it's a great change for our captain. You do take my breath away."
"Three cheers for Captain Egerton!" shouted Tom, flinging his hat into the air with such good will that it went overboard, and probably disagreed terribly with the fishes.
But the men took up the cheers, and they were really hearty ones; and of all the spirit-stirring sounds that ever you will hear, three cheers coming from the hearts of a set of British sailors is the most stirring.
"We've not heard all the news yet," said Collier. "There's more to tell, or I'm a Dutchman."
"Yes," said another man, "Mr. Yeo, he told all that, for all to hear. And then he says, says he, 'What more I have to say is for your private ear, Captain Egerton.' And so they went to the captain's cabin."
CHAPTER VIII.
A "CUTTING-OUT" EXPEDITION.
YOU may be sure that both officers and men kept a bright look-out for the opening of the door of the captain's cabin. It was surprising how many of the officers found themselves on deck, though it was a broiling day, and they would have been cooler in the wardroom. Little Charlie Egerton, the youngest midshipman, so far forgot himself as to presume upon being the captain's son, and went to the door, knocking timidly. But he probably heard something not pleasant to his feelings, for he ran away with more haste than dignity.
Presently Mr. Duncan, first lieutenant (and in those days a frigate carried no commander, so that the "first luff" was second in command), was sent for, which greatly increased the excitement on board.
After some time, Mr. Duncan and Mr. Yeo came on deck together. Mr. Duncan briefly gave the order, "Pipe the side," and while Mr. Yeo's boat was being brought into position, these two talked together very earnestly.
Captain Egerton came on deck before Mr. Yeo departed. He looked about for a moment, and then said—
"We shall have to beat up against the wind the whole way. The 'Imogene' is pretty lively, so I dare say we shall keep together easily. Good-bye, Yeo; we shall have fine weather, I think."
"I think so, sir; good-bye."
And with a last shake hands, Mr. Yeo was gone.
"Mr. Duncan, I wish the men to come aft. I want to speak to them."
Mr. Duncan passed the order on to the boatswain, "All hands aft, Mr. Kenyon."
And in no time, so eager were they, every man not actually busy was ready for the captain's speech.
Mr. Duncan, who knew all about it, went and took the place of the man at the wheel—one of those small acts of good fellowship by which the English naval officer makes his men ready to follow him anywhere.
"My men," said the captain, "the 'Warspite' has brought us great news—some of it sad enough. The United States have declared war; rather unexpectedly, for it was supposed that we had arranged that difficulty. The American frigate 'Ontario' met, fought, and captured our frigate the 'Corinna.' Admiral Kinnaird has died of yellow fever. Thus the two officers senior to me on this station are removed, and the command is in my hands for the present. But I cannot rejoice in this, for Admiral Kinnaird is a terrible loss to the service, and Captain Hervey, of the 'Corinna,' is one of my dearest friends, and they say he is wounded.
"It becomes our duty, of course, to fight the Yankees wherever we can find them, and Mr. Yeo has brought me intelligence on which I mean to act. He had an encounter with an American brigantine two days ago, when they pounded at each other for some hours, until night overtook them. The brigantine was getting the worst of it, and she made off during the night. Mr. Yeo, after some searching, found that she had slipped into a certain creek on the north side of the little French island of S. Grégoire. She is larger and carries more men than the 'Warspite,' and there was the chance that the French officer in the fort might be able to send some men to help her. So Mr. Yeo thought it imprudent to follow her in, but knowing that we were not far off, he came down here in the hope of meeting us. And I have determined to attempt the capture of the brigantine; if possible, to surprise her and cut her out."
Tremendous cheering.
"What's cutting-out?" asked Tom, as soon as Gideon could hear him.
"I'll explain by-and-by. Hark, what more?"
"I am going to ask for volunteers," said the captain. "Mr. Duncan will command—"
"Three cheers for Mr. Duncan!" roared some one.
More cheering.
"He'll command. There will be our pinnace, yawl, and gig, and Mr. Yeo's gig—I want sixty men."
Sixty! He might have had every man there. But as all could not go, the captain proceeded to make his selection. And, to the unbounded pride and delight of Tom Adderley, he was chosen as one of the sixty.
After a while, Gideon and he being again together, Tom asked him for the promised explanation of the mysteries of "cutting-out."
"You get to know," said Gideon, "that the enemy is lying in some harbour or creek, as this here brigantine is said to do. You get as near as may be after dark. You send your boats, full of well-armed men—picked men—it's a thing for you to be proud of, Tom. Quiet—no noise, no cheering—you rows up alongside that ship, and you boards her. Then, mostly, there's a scrimmage, even if they don't see you and begin before you get alongside—though once I helped to cut out a small privateer, and every soul on board was asleep, and showed no fight at all. You beats them, claps them under hatches, let the anchor slip, and h'istes sail and away."
"What fun!" cried Tom, his eyes brightening.
Gideon looked approvingly at him.
"You're a chip of the old block," said he. "No fear but there'll be plenty of sailors, even when me and my mates are gone."
The love of fighting is, I think, one of the strangest things in our strange nature. Here was Tom, hitherto a youth of peaceful pursuits, and a particularly good-tempered one. Yet he no sooner hears that he is going to have a chance of being knocked on the head, than he is in such a state of delight and impatience that every hour seems four times as long as usual. And here is good, kind-hearted old Gideon, highly pleased to see his dear Tom in such a courageous frame of mind! Men are certainly very strange creatures.
Captain Egerton kept the "Imogene" beating up to the north-west all that day. Late in the evening she had got as far in that direction as he thought necessary, and now ran gaily before the wind for the tiny French island of S. Grégoire. The "Warspite" was not far off. Darkness fell just as they sighted the island, which was defended by a small fort on the south side, where there was a little harbour. The creek into which the American ship had crept, was not known to be fortified or defended in any way.
By nine o'clock the boats were ready. Every man had his cutlass, pistol, and knife, and the rowers were armed as well as the others. The "Warspite's" boats were with them, Mr. Yeo in command. Captain Egerton stood looking at his men as they went over the side one by one, saying a few words of encouragement and caution.
The oars were all muffled—a device quite new to Tom. His heart was beating wildly with excitement when his turn came to pass the captain. But he paused, for little Charlie Egerton had rushed up to his father in excitement even greater than Tom's.
"Father, Geering has fallen and hurt himself; the surgeon is with him now. I've got my dirk and my pistols; I can go at once. Let me go! Oh, do let me go instead of Geering."
Geering, the somewhat older mid, who was to have gone, had, indeed, contrived in his hurry to get a very bad fall, and could by no means go. Captain Egerton looked at his son. The words in his heart were, "What will his mother say to me?" The words on his lips were, "Off with you, then. Now, remember, my lads, no noise, and—and good-bye, Charlie."
Charlie tumbled into Mr. Duncan's boat as fast as he could. Tom looked in the captain's set, stern face, and said, half ashamed of himself—
"I'll be there, sir."
The captain gave him a quick glance and nodded. Tom took his place in the boat, almost wishing that he might be killed in saving Mr. Midshipman Egerton for his father's sake.
Away over the dark water, with here and there a strange light shining on the surface, some phosphorescent appearance with which they were quite familiar, but it has an eerie look to those who see it for the first time. They soon lost sight of the ships; then they were near enough to see the land by the soft starlight. The creek had a narrow mouth, and there was a tiny basin, and then a sudden turn to the west; the boats could only enter one by one. Not a word was spoken—there was no noise to betray them; three boats had entered by the narrow passage, when suddenly a blaze of light burst upon them. On the flat rock, on one side of the passage, a flame shot right up to the sky, and at the same moment a little battery, which must have been built quite recently, opened a brisk fire on the leading boat. This was the pinnace, and in it were Mr. Duncan, little Egerton, and Tom Adderley.
A yell burst from the sailors; the boat's advance was checked, for several of her rowers were killed or wounded. Mr. Duncan had fallen, and lay senseless in the bottom of the boat. The next boat nearly ran the pinnace down before it could be checked. The confusion was frightful. Mr. Yeo, who was in the third boat, was luckily a cool, clear-headed man. He took in the situation at a glance, called to his men to follow him, ran his boat close to the rocks, and landed. In five minutes he had driven the handful of Frenchmen out of the battery.
Young Egerton, gazing round, hardly knowing what had happened, heard an old sailor say in a low voice—
"Give the order to put back, Mr. Egerton. It's all up; we can do naught to-night."
The fair little face flushed. The boy looked at Mr. Duncan, and realized what had happened.
"I'm in command of this boat," said he. "Give way, my men; we'll do it yet."
But, very fortunately, poor Mr. Duncan had begun to come to his senses, and heard these words. He stretched out his hand and caught hold of the boy.
"No, Egerton, no. We must run for it."
All this passed very quickly, far more quickly than it can be told. None of the other boats had suffered as much as the pinnace, though when the "Warspites" came tumbling back into their boat, they had several wounded among them. Some unhurt men took the place of the rowers who could do no more, and Mr. Yeo gave his orders with perfect coolness. Poor Mr. Duncan had fainted again. The confusion was over; one by one the boats made for the passage, but as each boat reached it, a fire of musketry was opened on them from both sides.
The "Imogene's" pinnace was the last but one to pass through (Mr. Yeo, of course, remained to the last), and in the narrowest part of the passage, little Egerton, who had been bending over Mr. Duncan, suddenly raised himself, gave a faint cry, and fell into the water. And Tom Adderley was after him before the gleam of the fatal fire, which still blazed high, had ceased to glint on the boy's golden hair.
The last boat was close behind; there was no possibility of pausing, even for a moment.
Presently a rocket shot up from the "Imogene" to guide them; for, of course, the light had made Captain Egerton aware that there was something wrong.
When the pinnace lay alongside, Captain Egerton was there, giving his orders as quietly as if his heart had been at rest, instead of torn with cruel anxiety for his boy. Mr. Duncan was got up the side, and carried to his cabin; the other wounded were all brought up as carefully as possible. Then those who were unhurt began to follow, but the brave fellows came slowly, and not one of them could look at the captain.
"Is that all?" he said, after a pause.
"Captain, 'twere in the narrow place; 'twere a musket-shot did it."
The speaker, a big strong man, was crying like a child.
"Is—he—in the boat?" said the captain.
"No, sir. He fell overboard; and some one jumped after him, but I could not see who 'twas."
"'Twould be my poor Tom," said old Gideon. "Well, he did right."
"Mr. Egerton never blenched, sir. When the fire began, and Mr. Duncan fell, he took command of the boat as if he'd been a man grown, as bright and as cool."
Here the man broke off with a sudden shout—
"Hullo! Look at that!"
The "Warspite's" boat had come alongside during this conversation, and at this moment a small figure rushed into Captain Egerton's arms.
"Father, I'm safe!"
"My boy!"
For a few moments, I do not think there was a dry eye among the onlookers. Then the captain, making a tremendous effort to recover himself, set the boy on his feet, and said, in a voice that 'would' not be steady—
"Not wounded, Mr. Egerton?"
"No, sir. I don't know yet why I fell into the water."
But he knew presently, when he found his watch perfectly ruined, with a bullet well embedded in its works!
"How were you saved?"
"Some one caught hold of me, and the 'Warspite's' boat picked us both up. Here he is. I haven't seen his face yet."
It was a very red face, but it was the face of Tom Adderley. Captain Egerton shook hands with him then and there, and broke down in trying to thank him. Then Mr. Yeo came on board, and he, with the captain and Mr. Carteret, retired for a consultation. Gideon bore Tom off. It would be hard to say which of them was the happier at that moment.
It is not to be supposed that British sailors were going to put up with a rebuff like this! Next day, as many men as could be safely spared entered that creek in broad daylight, under Captain Egerton's command. They landed, routed the small force of men armed with muskets, who proved to be sailors from the brigantine, carried the battery, spiked the guns, and blew up the place. They took the brigantine, and, being fairly started on a career of conquest, they dashed across the little island to the fort, carried it by storm, and made the garrison prisoners. It was a very small fort, and the garrison consisted of forty half-starved looking Frenchmen, with two or three elderly officers, who swore such strange oaths that it was as well that there were few who understood them. Thus S. Grégoire became a part of the British empire.
N.B.*—Do not look for S. Grégoire on the map. But much of what this chapter contains really occurred.
* [N.B.—nota bene]
CHAPTER IX.
PAID OFF.
SPACE, or rather the want of it, forbids me to give you any more of Tom's adventures in the West Indies. Suffice it to say that he laid up materials enough for the entertainment of Burdeck for many years, should he ever return there to tell his story.
And to return no longer seemed impossible to him. He had redeemed his character, and had begun to understand his position and to love his profession. He knew now that he would receive all arrears of pay and a good little sum of prize-money when the "Imogene" went out of commission. You see, Tom still loved to lay by his money for his mother, but when Captain Egerton wanted to make him a handsome present for his good service to his son, Tom refused to receive it.
"Let me do it for nothin' but—because I owe you more than my life, sir," he said.
At last three years had passed away since the day when Tom became one of the "Imogene's" crew, and the "Imogene" was on her way home. Captain Egerton had, of course, long since handed over the command of the station to an admiral, and since that time the frigate had been in action several times. Once, indeed, she had been all but captured by two American frigates, and was only saved by a sudden storm, in which Captain Egerton, by his splendid seamanship, escaped from both the enemy's ships. Generally, the "Imogene" was successful, but she had been a good deal knocked about, and repairs were absolutely necessary. For these repairs she was going home, and it seemed likely that she would be paid off. For, in the interval, peace had been made with the United States, and Napoleon had been conquered and sent to Elba, so that for the future it would not be necessary to keep so many ships in commission.
They were nearly at home. They had met with rough weather, and had been forced out of their intended course, so that they were very near the coast of France, though they did not actually enter the Bay of Biscay.
Tom was on duty as look-out man, and Gideon Terlizzeck had joined him in his airy quarters, just for the pleasure of being with him. Gideon had become very fond of Tom, and Tom returned his affection.
"A sail!" shouted Tom.
And when he had answered all the questions of the officer on duty as to the whereabouts of the said sail, Gideon said—
"See what 'tis to have young eyes! 'I' see no sail yet. Ah, well, it do not matter now, as it would have mattered last year, when she might be an American or a Frenchman, layin' wait for us here."
Presently the ship Tom has espied afar off came much nearer. Captain Egerton came on deck with his telescope, and he looked at the stranger, whose movements puzzled him. Why was she bearing down upon him in this way? Had England been still at war, he would have understood the matter perfectly. But the war was over. However, the ship, a great three-decker, kept on her course, and Captain Egerton wondered more and more. When, to complete his amazement, she fired a shot across the "Imogene's" bows, and at the same time ran up the imperial colours of France.
"What on earth does the fellow mean?" cried Captain Egerton, angrily.
"I'm afraid there's something wrong that we haven't heard of," said Mr. Duncan, anxiously. "Can that fiend have escaped and taken the field again? I always said we ought to have shot him!"
Captain Egerton laughed, for he had argued that question with Mr. Duncan many and many a time.
"Shorten sail, Duncan; we'll stand off and on a bit. She's lowering a boat, so we shall know all about it soon. Carteret, you understand French—don't let them board us; just find out what they are at."
The boat drew near. A French officer stood up and made a polite bow, begging to know what ship this was.
"'Imogene,' Captain Egerton," Mr. Carteret replied. Then in French, "What do you mean by flying the imperial flag?"
"His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Napoleon has returned to France," was the reply. "This is the 'Monarque,' 130 guns. May I hope that your captain will see the necessity of surrendering to such superior force, thereby sparing useless bloodshed?"
The force was even more superior than the speaker supposed it to be. For the "Imogene" was known to be in a bad way, for want of a thorough overhauling, one of her masts was spliced, and she was somewhat short-handed, several of her men having consented to be transferred to other ships when she was ordered home. For all that, there was but one opinion on board the "Imogene."
"Surrender," said Captain Egerton, quietly, "without a gun fired? What does the fellow take us for? Send him about his business, Carteret.—Duncan, beat to quarters."
The Frenchman made a flourishing bow, and said, "Au revoir," which meant, "You will all be prisoners on board the 'Monarque' by-and-by, if we don't sink you."
But the "Imogene's" drums were beating to quarters before his fine bow was quite finished.
"I'd like to send a shot after that fellow," growled Mr. Carteret.
All was now activity on board the "Imogene;" activity, but not confusion. It is in a case of this kind that one sees what discipline is worth. Every man knew exactly what he had to do, and did it. Cheer after cheer was heard as the men ran to their stations.
"Duncan," said Captain Egerton, "if we get her broadside, we are done for. We'll board her, now—at once. Get the boarders ready as fast as you can. I'll lay her alongside, yardarm to yardarm; we have the wind, and we'll carry her before she has well gone to quarters. There, that's her drum now."
"Who shall lead the boarders?" said Mr. Duncan.
"You," said the captain. "Shake hands, Duncan. God bless you!"
Well, if those Frenchmen never knew before what British sailors can do and will do, they found it out that day. Before the last tap of the "Monarque's" drums, beating to quarters, had ceased to echo "'tween decks;" before the men were all in their stations, the little "Imogene" was upon them.
"Boarders, away!"
To his dying day, Tom was proud to say, "And I was one of them."
Tom had seen a good deal of fighting, but such a fight as this never before. The Frenchmen, surprised as they were, fought like brave men—fought desperately and furiously. The Englishmen fought as if each had at least six lives, and was prepared to lose them all. To be made prisoners almost in sight of home? Never!
The "Monarque" fired one broadside, but the greater number of her guns were too high above the "Imogene" to injure her, and the frigate's fire silenced the lower deck. After a fearful struggle, the upper deck was cleared and the Frenchmen driven below. Charlie Egerton pulled down the imperial flag, and this practically ended the fight. The French captain lay dead upon his own deck, and in neither ship was there an officer unwounded. Mr. Duncan was hurt, but not very seriously; Mr. Carteret was badly wounded; Captain Egerton lost an arm; and even gallant young Charlie had a cut over his right eye, of which, if the truth must be told, he was exceedingly proud. Tom Adderley escaped untouched, though he had been in the thickest of the fight from first to last. Old Gideon, too, was safe, but they had lost many a comrade, both among the boarders and the men who had served the guns.
A victory is not all pleasure, as many a man has acknowledged as well as poor Tom Adderley, as he helped to clear the decks that afternoon.
This engagement, which lasted for less than an hour, took place on the 10th of May, 1815, and on the 13th of May the "Imogene" and her big prize sailed into Cawsand Bay, near Plymouth.
The "Imogene" was paid off as soon as possible, the men receiving their arrears of pay and all their prize-money, except, of course, what they had won by taking the "Monarque."
And then Tom saw some comical scenes—comical in one way, but sad enough in another. For instance, he saw a dozen sailors, not quite as sober as they ought to have been, driving about in and on a hearse, which they had hired for the day. There was great struggling for seats on the top, the tars saying that they preferred to be on deck. They drove about the streets, visiting all the public-houses, where they not only got very drunk themselves, but insisted upon "treating" every one they could lay hold of. He saw a man, whom he had believed to be a quiet, sensible fellow, but who actually bought four watches, melted them down in a frying-pan, and wanted to try to eat them, but was prevented by old Gideon at considerable personal risk.
Tom was utterly surprised and shocked at these and similar scenes, but Gideon said that this kind of thing always went on when men were paid off, and that he had witnessed worse doings than these. There were no "Sailors' Homes" or "Sailors' Reading-rooms" in those days, and, little as either Gideon or Tom liked the life, they could not quite keep out of the way of their old comrades.
"Why," said Tom, "they won't have a guinea left out of all their money, at this rate."
"Not a silver shilling," said Gideon; "and then they'll all go to sea again."
"Well, if I hadn't seen it, I could never have believed that men could be such fools. What's the good of working hard to earn money, only to fling it away like this?"
"Worse than no good, Tom, if so be the poor souls could only see it. Soul and body they do injure. Why, already you'd hardly know Greg Collier; and as to your old shipmate, Dick Carr, 'twill be months before he is himself again."
"Dick has some excuse. You know he found out accidental, from a man he met in the dockyard, that his girl is married. But the rest—such a set of fools!"
"Well, Tom, no one ever taught 'em better, poor dear souls. Such rioting is not your temptation, and I'm thankful for that. Indeed, I think you're a good lad, Tom, and wish to do what's right, but don't ye be proud and despise your neighbours. It leads to no good. It's not only because it's in the Bible that I say that pride goes before a fall; it is likeways my own experience. We're all poor creatures, and each one has his own temptation. Tom, I do suppose you're going home for a sight of your good father and mother—when and how do you think to go?"
"I'm not going, Gideon. I mean to go to sea again. I met an old friend yesterday—a man by the name of Robins, who was aboard the 'Star of the Sea' with me. This fellow has a boat of his own now, and is making a heap of money. He says if I'll trust him with my savings, he'll double them for me. I have only twenty-five guineas—you know my share was a good bit less than those that served the whole time with the 'Imogene.' And I won't go home till I can do so with credit—pay my mother threefold, or even four. What I'd like would be to find some ship that's been a couple of years in commission, so that I could be free again, say, in two years. Then I could go home."
"Take my advice and go now," said Gideon. "You've been brought to see that you did very wrong to take that money from your mother. Go home and tell her so; for, you may believe me, those words will be more to her than all the gold in Solomon's temple—and you'll mind, Tom, there was a lot of gold in that there. Do now, my boy. Something tells me that if you don't, you'll be sorry for it."
"I don't like to go against your advice, Gideon. But you see, I've promised Robins. He used to talk of my being his partner long ago, but I shouldn't care for that now. And what ill can come of it? My father and mother are not to say old—I've heard her say she was seventeen when they were married, and he very little more. My poor sister that died was the oldest of us. Let me see; she was eighteen when she died, and little Dolly was three when I ran away—that's twenty-one years. Twenty-one and seventeen—" Tom paused and knit his brow—"that's thirty-eight. And four years aboard the old 'Star'—that's forty-two; and three in the 'Imogene'—that's forty-five; and that ain't old. Neither father nor mother can be much more than that."
"It's not to say old, but that's not the question. You owe it to them to go as soon as you can, and tell them you're sorry you disobeyed them and took what you'd no right to take. It's the principle of the thing, Tom; it's because you ought."
"I don't see it as you do, Gideon. I want to make amends to them, and what's twenty-five guineas? Now, if Robins goes on being as lucky as he has been, I'll soon have what would stock a small farm, and that would be worth talking about. And indeed, I may as well tell you, there's no use in talking, because I never thought you'd see things so different, and—I gave Robins the money."
"If you'd told me that at once, my lad, I'd have saved my breath to whistle for a wind. Well, I hope Robins is an honest man. I do declare, Tom, you're very risky."
"Why, I've known Robins this long time! 'Twas he first taught me to trade a little on my own account, and taught me to add up, and reckon, and all that. See, he gave me a reg'lar receipt, as he called it. Oh, the money is safe enough. And I was telling him of you, Gideon, and all your goodness to me. And he said if you'd trust him with a few guineas, he'll do as well for you as for me."
"Ay, ay; all that sounds very well, but before I do anything of the kind, I'd like to know something about the kind of trade he carries on. 'Twas that I mean, not that your money isn't safe; though I'm not so sure it be safe either. We'll see this Robins and make inquiry. I wish you'd 'a gone home, Tom; I wish you'd go even now."
"I couldn't do that. Don't ask it, Gideon."
"Well, come along, and let's see if we can get sight of this Robins."
But, curious to relate, this was what they could not do! They could by no means find Mr. Robins. Tom met him once again, when he was alone, and received an earnest assurance that his trade was "all fair and above-board." But when Gideon was with him, Tom was very unlucky in always missing his friend Robins.
The chance of meeting him was soon over, for happening to meet Mr. Duncan, now a commander, he told them that he had been appointed to the "Juno" (Captain Parkhurst), going out with Lord A—, the new Governor-General of India, to Calcutta. The ship was to come home and be paid off as soon as this duty was performed, and it would take a year or fourteen months.
This seemed to be the very thing Tom wanted, so both he and Gideon offered themselves, and were accepted. The "Juno" sailed in June, and the last thing Tom heard from his native land was the thunder of the guns firing for the great victory over Napoleon at Waterloo.