Save to turn my back on a region which had now become full of gloomy associations, I had no very definite purpose in view in that morning’s ride. There was nothing to be done. The mischief to her I loved was beyond recall. Even those who had made themselves the agents of this vile conspiracy had placed themselves out of reach. Tim, my own brother, was nominal chief to the hated band, and though he was absent, and would, I knew, have had no hand in this business, to denounce the whole company would be only to strike at him. From Maurice Gorman, coward and time-server, there was nothing to be hoped. Not a friend was there on whom I could count, not an enemy on whom I could have the sorry satisfaction of being revenged.
As, however, the gallop through the bracing morning air produced its natural effect, it occurred to me to offer my services, during the remainder of my leave of absence, to Captain Swift, or, should he desire it, join the Diana forthwith, and try to forget my trouble in hard work.
His honour’s passport took me safely past the numerous patrols which beset my way between Malin and Derry, and which spoke much for the rigour with which the new régime of martial law was being enforced. Once or twice I was questioned as to the two ladies named in the pass, to which I replied that I was to foregather with them presently—which I devoutly wished might be true.
At Derry more than usual ceremony awaited a stranger at the gates. I was conducted to the guard-room, and there detained under a kind of friendly arrest for half-an-hour or so, until it suited the pleasure of the officer on guard to inspect me.
When this gentleman made his appearance, I recognised, not altogether with delight, my old acquaintance and supposed rival, Captain Lestrange. He failed to recognise me at first, but when I reminded him of our last meeting in Paris, he took in who I was.
“Those were hard times,” said he. “How I ever got the ladies out of that terrible city I scarcely know to this day. I see you travel on Mr Gorman’s business, and escort two ladies. Where are they?”
“I wish I knew,” said I, and gave him a full account of my ride to Malin and all that happened there.
He heard my story with growing attention and consternation.
“Decoyed!” he exclaimed vehemently. “The dogs shall pay for this! I remember that scoundrel Martin.”
“Shall you go to Rotterdam?” said I.
“I?” said he, looking at me in surprise. “I am no man of leisure just now.”
“But report says you have a particular interest in Miss Gorman’s welfare.”
“Rumour commits many impertinences,” replied he with an angry frown. “For all that, I am not master of my own movements just now. I am here to hunt down rebels; and among them, unless I mistake, a brother of yours holds a prominent place.”
I winced.
“At least,” said I, “he never had hand either in murder, or pillage, or meanness to a woman. He is an honest soldier, though, alas! on the wrong side.”
Captain Lestrange laughed.
“It is the fashion of these rebels,” said he, “to dignify themselves as soldiers and claim the honours of war. But when we get hold of them they will learn that there is a difference between felony and warfare. Can you not persuade your brother out of it? I hear he is a fine fellow.”
“I have tried,” said I, mollified by this compliment; “but it is useless, and at present he is not to be found.”
“That’s the best place for him. As to Miss Gorman, I will go over to Knockowen and see if anything can be done to intercept the Dutchman. Meanwhile what of you?”
“I go to join my ship.”
“Good. We may meet again, Gallagher. Our paths have met strangely before now. Heaven grant they may bring us out into fair weather at last.”
I left him on the whole in good cheer. There was a blunt frankness about him which led me to believe that were I ever to be called upon to meet Captain Lestrange as an enemy, it would be as an honest and generous one. His affected indolence had already been disproved by the service he had rendered to the ladies in Paris. His regrets as to Tim showed that he was a man in whom the kindlier instincts were not all wanting. What, however, comforted me most was his tone with regard to Miss Kit. There was nothing of the lover about the words, and too little of the actor about the man to lead me to suppose he was deluding me. Why should he? He was my superior in birth and rank. He had claims of kinship and property which pointed him out as the natural squire for the heiress of Kilgorman. The idea of my being a rival had probably never entered his head; and if it had, would have done so only to raise a smile of incredulous pity. But that a lover could receive the news I brought as he did seemed quite impossible. So I went on my way, if not cheered, at least with a less heavy weight on my mind than before.
I found Captain Swift in bed with an attack of jaundice, and in a state of high excitement.
“How did you know I wanted you?” he said when I presented myself.
“I did not, sir,” said I. “Have you any orders for me?”
“A despatch has come from the Admiralty,” said he, “cancelling all leave of absence. The Diana being still under repair, I am appointed to the Zebra, now off Dublin, and ordered to sail on Saturday to join the fleet watching the Dutch off the Texel.”
I hope he put down to zeal for the service the whole of the satisfaction with which I received this announcement. No work just then could fit in better with my humour than watching the Dutchmen.
“Be ready to start by to-night’s coach,” said he. “I shall follow to-morrow, with or without my doctor’s leave. Here is a letter I wish you to deliver at the Admiralty. Then report yourself on board. I hear she’s an ill-found craft, and no one knows what sort of crew they will rake up for us. I wish the Diana hands were within call,” he added to himself.
Next day I was in Dublin, and duly left my captain’s letter at the Admiralty. I was instructed to report myself on board the Zebra before sundown, as there was much work to be done getting crew and stores in order ready for our immediate departure.
Having an hour or two at my disposal, I took a walk through the streets. Dublin, to all outward appearance, was in an orderly and peaceable state, and gave few signs of being, what it actually was at that time, the hotbed of a dangerous rebellion. It was only when I dived into some of the lower streets near the river, and saw the mysterious and ominous groups which hung about at the corners, and noticed the menacing looks with which they greeted any chance passer-by who was known to be a servant of the government, that I realised that I walked, as it were, on the edge of a volcano. How soon I was to experience for myself the terrors of that coming explosion the reader will hear.
I had got beyond the streets and into the Park, attracted thither by strains of martial music, when, in a retired path, I encountered a gentleman dressed in a close-fitting, semi-military coat, with a green scarf round his neck, and switching a cane to and fro as he paced moodily along. I recognised him as Lord Edward.
He looked up as I approached and at once recognised me.
“Ah, Gallagher, what news from Donegal? How is the charming fair one?” said he.
“The charming fair one,” said I, with a bitterness that startled him, “is a victim in the hands of your lordship’s followers. She has been decoyed away and carried off to Holland as an act of reprisal against her father.”
“What?” said he. “Tell me what you mean.”
And I told him my story. He listened, switching his cane against his leg, and watching my face with keen interest.
“It is part of the fortune of war,” said he, “that the innocent suffer for the guilty. But this must be seen to at once. The Scheldt will probably make for Holland by the north route. If so, she will not arrive at Rotterdam for a week or two. By that time I will communicate with some one I know near there, and see she is taken care of. Hang the fools!” muttered he. “What good can come to any one by such an act?”
“Indeed, my lord,” said I, “if I may venture to say so; Ireland has little to look for from her professed friends in Donegal, where private spite and greed are the main support of your confederacy.”
“You are not the first who has told me that,” said he gloomily. “No doubt you are glad to see our weakness in this quarter.”
“I should be but that my brother, although absent, is the nominal head there, and it’s little credit to him.”
“Tim Gallagher is too good a man to be wasted.”
“Do you know where he is?” I inquired.
“Abroad on his country’s service,” said Lord Edward. “You must be content with that. Here our ways part. Good-bye, my lad.” And he gave me a friendly nod.
“Your lordship will pardon me one question. Have you any objection to tell me the address of the friend in Holland to whose care you propose to commend Miss Gorman?”
“She is an old retainer in a kinswoman’s family, one Biddy McQuilkin. She keeps a little inn on the outskirts of the Hague, called the ‘White Angel.’”
“Biddy McQuilkin!” exclaimed I with excitement. “Why, she was servant to the Lestranges in Paris, who perished in ‘the terror.’”
“The same. This Biddy was overlooked, and finally escaped, and by the interest of Madame Sillery got to Holland, and set up at this small inn, frequented by English and Irish visitors.”
It was difficult to disguise the joy which this unexpected discovery afforded me. I bade adieu to his lordship with a grateful salute, and then betook myself in a state of wonder and jubilation to the harbour.
In Biddy McQuilkin were centred any hopes I entertained of righting the wrong which had been done at Kilgorman, and so of carrying out my mother’s sacred bequest. Moreover, the thought that Miss Kit would find so stalwart a protector at the end of her unhappy voyage lifted a heavy weight from my mind.
And all this relief I owed to the man whom, of all others, I, as a loyal subject of his Majesty, was bound to consider as my country’s most dangerous enemy! Alack! I was not born to be a good hater. For as I strode that evening through the streets of Dublin I counted this Lord Edward as one of the few men for whom I would gladly have given my life.
When in due time I procured a boat to row me out to the Zebra, I found that Captain Swift’s forebodings as to the state of the ship were only too well founded. The Zebra was a second-rate frigate, which for some years had been out of regular commission, doing duty on coast-guard service, or cruising under letters of marque. She was not an ill-looking craft; though, to judge by her looks as she rode at anchor, her lines were better adapted to fast sailing than hard knocks.
When I reported myself on board, however, I was better able to understand my captain’s misgivings. The first lieutenant in charge was a coarse, brutal-looking fellow, who, if he spared me some of the abuse which he measured out to the ordinary seamen, did so because he looked to me to take some labour off his hands.
“It’s high time you came,” said he; “and unless you can lick a pack of wolves into shape, you may as well swing yourself up at the yard-arm at once. They seem to have emptied all the jails in Dublin to find us men; and as for stores—well, the less said about these the better.”
I was not long in discovering that he had good reasons for his gloomy opinions. The hands, whom presently I piped on deck, were as ill-assorted and ill-conditioned a lot as boatswain ever was called upon to overhaul. Many were raw hands, who did not know one end of a mast from the other. Others, who knew better, appeared to be the refuse of crews which had rejected their worst men. And the few old salts of the right kind were evidently demoralised and dissatisfied, both at their enforced association with their present messmates and with the abrupt termination of their leave ashore.
As to the officers, with the exception of the first lieutenant and a few of the petty officers who took their cue from him, they seemed a decent and fairly smart set, although few of them had been tried in active service, and fewer still, I fancy, had had charge of so ill-found a ship as the Zebra.
One of the first complaints I was called upon to hear and report to my officers was as to the ship’s food, which was truly as scurvy and unsavoury a provision as I ever saw. Biscuits and grog and pork were such as the lowest slop-shop in Letterkenny would have been ashamed to sell.
“It’s good enough for hounds like them,” was all I could get out of the lieutenant. “They can take it or leave it.”
The next complaint I made was on my own account, and referred to the ship’s stores. We had barely our complement of anchors and cables, still less any to come and go on. For reserve spars and sails and other tackle we were almost as badly off; while the ammunition and arms were certainly not enough for a service involving any considerable action.
The officer in charge received all these representations with the utmost indifference.
“Get better if you can,” said he; “it’s all of a piece, and quite proper for a service that’s gone to the dogs. Hark at those demons now! The rum seems good enough, anyhow.”
And indeed all that night the Zebra was more like a madhouse than one of his Majesty’s ships. What authority there was was maintained at the end of the cat-o’-nine-tails. As for the enthusiasm and patriotic ardour which are usually supposed to hail the prospect of close-quarters with the enemy, one would have had to listen long and hard for any sign of either below decks that night.
“The best that can happen to us,” said I to myself, as I turned in at last, “is a hurricane up Channel, and the Dutch fleet at the end of it. These may hold us together; nothing else will.”
When Captain Swift came on board next evening things mended a little, for our gallant officer was a man whose name and manner both commanded respect. At the last moment some few additional stores were brought off; and the little speech he made to the crew, reminding them of their honourable profession, and holding out a prospect of distinction and prize-money in the near future, was listened to with more respect than I feared it would meet. The men, through one of their number, made a formal complaint of their grievances, which Captain Swift received on his part without resentment. The order was then given to weigh anchor, and half-an-hour later the Zebra was standing out to sea on as ill-starred a voyage as vessel ever made.
Had Captain Swift’s health been equal to his gallantry and tact all might even yet have gone well. But he came on board ill, and two days after we sailed he was confined to his berth with a dangerous relapse, and the fate of the Zebra was left in the hands of the worst possible man for the duty—Mr Adrian, the first lieutenant.
A week of light and fickle winds brought us through the Channel and well on our way to Yarmouth Roads, off which we understood Admiral Duncan was lying. As we passed the Downs, strange and ugly rumours of trouble ahead met us. One night, as we lay anchored waiting for our wind, I was on deck at my watch when I caught the sound of oars approaching the Zebra. Shortly after several missives were pitched on deck, one of which alighted just at my feet.
I examined it with some curiosity. It was a bundle of printed papers addressed to the sailors of England, calling upon them to insist on the redress of grievances, and to stand by their brethren who at that moment were in a state of mutiny at the Nore. Other papers described the success which had attended a similar mutiny at Spithead a week or so previously. Another was a flaring proclamation, signed “Parker, President,” on board H.M.S. Sandwich at the Nore, announcing that the fleet was in the hands of the men; that all the obnoxious officers were under arrest; that the Thames was under strict blockade; that conditions had been offered to the Admiralty; and that, if these were not accepted within a given time, it was the intention of the leaders of the mutiny to put to sea and hand the ships in their possession to the enemy. Further, it was stated that the fleet at the Nore was being daily recruited by deserters from the North Sea squadron and elsewhere; that arms and supplies were abundant; and that England was at the mercy of those whom up till now she had treated as veritable slaves. And so on.
All this greatly troubled me; for, from what I knew of the crew of the Zebra, such seditious stuff furnished just the fuel required to set the spirit of the men in a blaze. The other missives thrown on board, no doubt containing the same or similar matter, had pretty certainly fallen into the hands of those who would read the call to mutiny with different eyes from mine. If so, the mischief was already far gone.
I hastened with my papers to Lieutenant Adrian, who glanced over them contemptuously.
“All bunkum and wind,” said he, pitching them into a corner. “We have heard this sort of thing before.”
“If it is true, sir,” I ventured to say, “that the ships at the Nore have mutinied, we had better give them a wide berth, for it’s a catching thing.”
“Pooh! there’s no more in it than the cat and a noose or two at the yard-arms can cure,” said he. “However, keep your eyes open, Mr Gallagher, and report the first sign of mutiny. There’s nothing like nipping it in the bud.”
For all the lieutenant’s assumed indifference, further consultation with the captain and the other officers resulted in some needful precautions being taken. The watches were increased, the ammunition was placed under extra guard, and picked men were told off to man the helm. As the south-easterly breeze was rising, too, orders were given to weigh anchor at once and put to sea.
The men obeyed the orders to set sail in a sullen, mechanical way, which did not grow more hearty as they saw that every officer carried his pistol in his belt, and watched the execution of every command with suspicious keenness.
It was only when the order to turn in gave them the opportunity of congregating in larger numbers and discussing the proclamation that they took heart, and arrived at something like a united policy. Had I had my own way that night, convinced as I was of the inevitable outcome of delay, I would have clapped down the hatches and left them there to deliberate till doomsday, or such time as they chose to beg for release on the captain’s terms. As it was, there was nothing to do but to speculate moodily on what the morrow would bring forth, and meanwhile make what use we could of the favouring breeze to put as many leagues as possible between ourselves and the treasonable neighbourhood of the Nore.
The worst of it was that the honest grievances of the seamen were so patent, and the injustice they suffered at the hands of officers like Lieutenant Adrian so flagrant, that had they been fairly stated and fairly met nothing but good could have come of it. But put forward as they were likely to be by a crew like ours, and encouraged and fomented by agitators such as those who had drawn up the proclamation, what issue was probable but one of desperate struggle and probably bloodshed?
It was plainly seen, when hands were piped next morning, that the temper of the men had changed for the worse. As they strolled indolently up on deck, and glanced up at the well-set sails, and saw the bows pointing due north, and as their eyes fell on the bright pistols and side-arms at the officers’ belts, it was evident they were in some doubt as to what course to pursue.
They talked together in surly groups, arguing probably that on the high sea, away from support, and in the presence of a forewarned and forearmed body of officers, their chances of seizing the ship were not promising; and one or two were bold enough audibly to regret their folly for not having struck their blow and hoisted the red flag while the Zebra lay in friendly company in the Downs.
Finally, as I supposed, it was decided to wait till we reached Yarmouth Roads, and claim the support of the mutineers there. Meanwhile orders were obeyed with ominous silence; and worse still, the few loyal men on whom the officers had counted to stand by them were got at and drawn into consultation with their messmates, and some of them were seduced into taking part with the malcontents.
Next afternoon we sighted sails to northward; but as just then the breeze fell dead, we were unable before nightfall to ascertain whether they were ships of Admiral Duncan’s squadron or not. While Lieutenant Adrian was deliberating with the other officers as to whether we should put off a boat to get word of them, the men came aft in a body and demanded a conference.
Their spokesman was an Irishman whom I recognised as one of the new hands brought on board at the last moment off Dublin. He was a glib, noisy fellow, clever most likely at anything but seamanship, of which he knew nothing, and very little acquainted with the seamen’s grievances of which he elected himself to speak.
Lieutenant Adrian, who was in an ill-enough temper at the time, ordered him to take himself and the dogs at his heels to the place they came from, unless he wanted to taste the lash.
The men, who had expected some such reception, stood their ground, and ordered Callan, for that was the leader’s name, to say on.
“It’s not yourself we need to speak to,” said Callan, “it’s the captain. Let us see him.”
“My lads,” said the ship’s surgeon, who was one of the officers present, “you are like enough to see your captain in his shroud before morning, for he is this moment at death’s door.”
“So much the worse,” replied Callan. “There was hope of justice out of Captain Swift; there’s none at all out of the lieutenant.”
“There’s precious good hope of a rope’s end,” retorted the enraged lieutenant hotly.—“Mr Gallagher, see that the fool is put in irons at once, and any one else that joins with him. We’ll soon put an end to this, even should a man dangle at every yard-arm for it!”
The only reply to this was a cheer from the men, and, what was quite unexpected, a sudden click of pistols as they drew up in two lines across the deck.
“Look’ee here, Mr Adrian,” said Callan, “we’re not the fools you take us for. While you have been drinking, we have not been idle. The powder-magazine is ours, and the forward guns are loaded and primed and turned this way.—Stand aside, lads, and let them see for themselves.”
The ranks opened, and sure enough in the forecastle we could see the muzzles of two twenty-four pounders pointed at the quarter-deck, and manned by some of the very men of whose loyalty until yesterday there had been least question.
Lieutenant Adrian, although a bully and a brute, was not lacking in animal courage, and betrayed no sign of dismay at this discovery.
“If you think we are to be frightened, hang you,” said he, “you are much mistaken. What is it you want?”
A coarse laugh greeted this tame ending to his speech. One old tar put himself forward before Callan could reply.
“It’s like this,” said he, with a salute. “We mean no disrespect to the captain or the service, but—”
“Hold your tongue,” said Callan, pushing him aside.—“What do we want? That’s easy told.”
And he took a paper from his pocket and read:—
“First. The first lieutenant, the third lieutenant, the master, the master’s mate, the boatswain, and Midshipmen Gamble and Brock, to leave the ship and be put ashore.
“Second. The ship to be taken to the Nore, and placed under the orders of Admiral Parker.
“Third. The remaining officers either to take the oath or be placed under arrest.
“Fourth. Two delegates, chosen by the men, to attend the admiral’s council, and act and vote on behalf of the ship.”
Lieutenant Adrian listened with an ill-concealed smile, in which, I confess, he was by no means alone.
“And what if we reject your precious first, second, third, and fourth piece of infernal impudence?”
“Then we shall take what we want without asking,” replied Callan with cool effrontery. “You may take an hour to decide.—Come, boys.”
The men gave another cheer, and retired singing “Rule, Britannia.” They left, however, a strongly-armed picket to cut off access from the quarter-deck to the rest of the ship.
The night was still dead calm, and the Zebra lay like a log in the sea, her sails drooping, and her head swinging idly with the tide.
“Well?” inquired one or two, looking at Lieutenant Adrian.
“Well?” retorted that officer. “If you want to know what I intend to do, I mean to drink a bottle of port below. There is but one answer to give, and nothing to discuss. So you may fetch me in an hour.”
“Shall we tell the captain?” asked Mr Felton, the second lieutenant, who, if he had only been superior to Mr Adrian, would have seen us through the crisis with more credit than we were likely to get.
“Certainly not,” said the doctor authoritatively. “The consultation in his cabin yesterday was a fatal mistake as far as he is concerned. Let him at least die in peace now.”
“How many loyal men do we muster, Mr Gallagher?” said Mr Felton.
“Twenty-five, all told, sir,” replied I. “We cannot count on any of the men for certain, though one or two may join us if it comes to a fight.”
“It will certainly come to that,” said Mr Felton quietly. And no one entertained the least question on that score.
“We have one ally more,” observed the master, who had for some time been sniffing the night air. “Unless I mistake, there’s a sou’-wester coming up in a jiffy.”
“I think you are right, master,” said Mr Felton. “That will put us over to the Dutch side, anyhow.”
“And there’s another ally yet, sir,” said I. “They’ve got possession of the two casks of rum that were last shipped at Dublin.”
“In that case,” said the second lieutenant, laughing, “we may count on a full hour before we are disturbed. If we are to make a fight of it, let it be a good one. Gentlemen,” said he, addressing the company, “the quarter-deck is still ours; twenty-five loyal men are a match for two hundred and fifty scoundrels any day. Bring the stern-guns into position, and throw up a barricade here. Look to your pistols and swords, and don’t waste bullets or powder. The worst they can do is to blow the ship up, and that they won’t do.—Master, you were right about the breeze. Bring her round as soon as she moves.—And some of you young gentlemen,” said he to the midshipmen, “be ready to bear a hand aloft with the sails.—Mr Gallagher, watch your chance of getting round to the forecastle and doctoring the guns there. You are not a new hand, I hear, at such a job.—Now, gentlemen all, we can but die once; let us do it well while we are about it.”
This spirited address had a great effect, and whatever sense of helplessness had been caused by the disparity of our numbers and the strong position of the mutineers, gave way to a desperate resolve to give a good account of ourselves before we yielded up the ship.
I could not help believing that some of the older and more experienced hands, though now borne down by the general feeling of insubordination, would side with us if only we could show a strong hand. If so, there would not be seamanship enough in the rest to set a topsail or read a chart; and every moment the breeze was freshening and promising us a lively morning.
The Zebra still hung listlessly in the water, but any moment now she might get under way. There was no time therefore to be lost in getting unobserved at the forward guns, which I was convinced was only to be done by dropping overboard and swimming round to the stem, where there was sufficient hanging tackle to help oneself on board with.
I secured the services of the master’s mate in this perilous venture—a tough sea-dog who was ready for anything, provided it was out of the commonplace. This business, I promised him, would at least be that.
The quartermaster had charge of the helm.
“Look alive, my lads,” said he, as we prepared to let ourselves overboard; “her head may go round any moment. As she lies you can drop on to it easy. Take a line with you, and pay out as you go, as you’ll need it to come back by. Over you go.”
We secured our pistols as best we could against the water, and then one after the other dropped over the stern and struck out for the peak. The ship was already beginning to sway on the breeze, and once or twice as we kept close under her side we were in peril of being sucked under or else crushed down by her lurches. However, we managed to reach the hanging tackle below the bowsprit without misadventure; and making fast the end of the line we carried, so that it hung close on the water-line from stem to stern, we began to haul ourselves, with our knives between our teeth, up into the shrouds.
While we were doing so the ship swung round into the wind, and began to move through the water.
As soon as we got our heads level with the gunwale we could dimly see the forecastle deck before us, and the breeches of the two twenty-four pounders, pointed astern. There was a man in charge of each. The two sat on the deck, with a can of liquor between them, playing dice in a quarrelsome, half-tipsy way. The rest of the company were assembled on the middle deck, and, to judge by the sounds, were deep in the discussion of their rum and their grievances.
I gave my comrade a signal, and next moment we sprang noiselessly on board, and had the two gunners overpowered, gagged, and made fast before they could utter a sound or reach for their arms.
Then without losing a moment we drove our nails into the touch-holes of the guns, trusting to the noise of the revellers and the dash of the water at the bows to drown the sound of the hammer. This done we dropped overboard, each with a prisoner, as quietly as we had come, and with the aid of the line reached the stern in safety, and found ourselves once more on the sanctuary of the quarter-deck.
Scarcely had we done so when we became aware of a movement among the enemy. So busily occupied had they been in their debauch that they had not noticed the change in the weather, or the advantage which had been taken of it to put the ship under way. As it was, they might have even allowed that to pass, supposing it only brought them nearer to Yarmouth Roads, when one of the old salts in their number pronounced that the new wind was from another quarter, and that instead of closing in with the admiral’s fleet off Yarmouth the Zebra was running for the open sea with a strong south-wester astern.
Finding themselves thus hoodwinked, and already excited by drink, the leaders, and as many of the men as could be enticed from the liquor, came once more aft and demanded another interview.
The quarter-deck, except for the sentries, the watch, and the men at the guns, was comparatively deserted, the officers having retired below until the hour allowed by the enemy had expired.
The senior officer present was Mr Felton.
“Quartermaster,” said he, as he stepped up to the helmsman, “how does she sail?”
“Nor’-east by east, sir. Making ten knots an hour.”
“Keep her so.—Mr Gamble,” said he, turning to a midshipman, “have the goodness to go to my cabin at once and fetch the magnet you will find lying in the drawer of my desk.”
In a minute Mr Gamble had performed his errand. Mr Felton meanwhile had lifted the cover of the compass-box, into which he now inserted the small magnet, so that it pulled the needle a quarter of the circle round, and made it appear that our course was due north.
“That should give us time,” said he as he replaced the cover. “The land-lubbers will know no better.—Use your pocket-compass, quartermaster, and keep her as she is.—Now, my man,” said he, addressing one of the loyal marines who had been standing sentry, “what is it?”
“If you plaze, sir, the hounds beyant there want a word with yez.”
“Tell them the hour is not yet up, and that Mr Adrian is below.”
“Sure I told them so, and Callan, he’s their talking man, says he must see yourself, or there’ll be mischief.”
“Very good,” said Mr Felton. “Pass the word below for all hands on deck; and let every man go quietly to his place.—Marine, allow Callan on the quarter-deck.”
But Mr Callan was not tipsy enough to fall into such a trap, and insisted on the honours of war and the word of a gentleman that he and three of his followers should be allowed safe-conduct, hinting at the same time that the forward guns were still in position, and that any attempt to break parole would be visited with ugly consequences.
Lieutenant Felton gravely gave the necessary assurance, whereupon, ordering their followers to wait below, Callan and three comrades, as tipsy as himself, staggered up the ladder.
“Now, sir, what is the matter?” demanded Mr Felton.
“Matter? The ship’s on the wrong tack. You’re sailing her out to sea; and if she’s not put round at once, we’ll put her about for you.”
Mr Felton laughed.
“Not so easy to sail out to sea in this wind as you think, my lad. I wonder, now, if you really know what direction we are going in.”
One of the four replied, “Nor’-east,” unless he was mistaken.
“Bless me,” said the officer, “and these are the men who pretend to speak in the name of the British seaman! I should prefer to take the word of the compass against yours in a cap of wind, my fine fellow, any day. Nor’-east, indeed!”
“The compass will say the same as us; or maybe we’re a point more to eastward.”
“You can satisfy yourself as to that if you please,” said Mr Felton dryly.—“Mr Gallagher, take these men and show them the compass. It will be a lesson to them in navigation.”
The laughter of the company succeeded in effectually damping the confidence of our amateur seamen as they slowly followed me abaft.
“Steer gingerly round these guns,” said I, as we passed the two guns which had been brought to bear on the forecastle; “they’re loaded. Gently now; it’s not so steady walking on a deck as round the Newgate exercise-yard. Come away now.—Quartermaster, show a light on the compass here for these gentlemen. They have come to give us a lesson in seamanship.”
“Compass!” said the quartermaster with a chuckle. “Ain’t the stars good enough for you? Who but a landlubber ever needed to look at a compass to see which way the wind blew? However, look away; and if it’s a point out of due north call me a Dutchman.”
The men peered stupidly over the compass.
“It’s north, sure enough,” growled the only man of the party who was at all weatherwise. “I could have sworn it was nor’-east or more.”
To encourage him I tapped the glass.
“We could make it nor’-east for you by putting a spring on the needle, if that’s what you want,” said I with a laugh.
Callan and the others looked wisely at the mendacious instrument, and then began to sheer off with the best grace they could.
“We should be in Yarmouth Roads at this rate by daybreak,” said he, “provided they play us no tricks.”
“We’ll see to that,” said the old salt. “Now we know she’s sailing north we’ll see she keeps so, or there’ll be the mischief in it.”
“Come away now,” said I, “your friends will be missing you; and what will become of your first, second, third, and fourth without you?”
It did not tend to raise the spirits of the four noble mariners as they passed round the guns to hear the laughter and cries of “nor’-east by east it is, sir,” which greeted their passage. Nor did they quite recover till they returned to the arms of their comrades, who bore them off with the glorious news that a fresh cask of rum had been broached, and that the lights of Yarmouth were already visible on the horizon.
It was past midnight, and in two hours the summer night would be past. After that, further mystification as to our course would be impossible; but could we hold on till then, with half a gale of wind behind us, we should be well over to the Dutch side, and clear at any rate of the mutinous atmosphere which infected Yarmouth Roads and the Nore.
The men, having, as I supposed, satisfied themselves that the Zebra was being sailed according to their own directions, decided to wait till daylight, by which time they counted on the encouragement and company of the Yarmouth mutineers, before they finally hoisted the red flag and took possession of the ship. Meanwhile they applied themselves assiduously to the liquor, an indulgence which, in the case of a good many of the land-lubbers of their company, must have been seriously spoiled by the rolling of the ship and their first acquaintance since we left Dublin with really dirty weather.
I reckoned that we were some twelve leagues from the Dutch coast, with the wind shifting westerly and sending heavy seas over our counter, when the grey dawn lifted and showed us a waste of water, with nothing visible but a single speck on the eastern horizon.
After close scrutiny we concluded this to be one or more sail beating up against the gale; but whether they were Dutch or English, it was too soon to say.
“Keep her as she is,” said Mr Adrian; “and, Mr Gallagher, pipe all hands. The sooner we come to an understanding with these fiends the better.”
I obeyed. A few of the old tars instinctively turned up to the call, but seeing all decks but the quarter-deck deserted, they remembered themselves and went off to look for their comrades.
Presently an uneasy group assembled on the forecastle, many of them showing traces of the mingled drunkenness and sea-sickness of the night. We could see them scanning the horizon with their glasses, and slowly awaking to the discovery that instead of being in the arms of the confederacy of “the Republic afloat” (as one of the proclamations had called it), the Zebra was scudding over the high seas.
There was an angry consultation, and shouts to those below to turn up. About half the number obeyed, though many of these were fit only to lie helplessly about the deck. A more miserable crew you never beheld.
“Hands aloft! Take in the main-topgallant sail!” cried Mr Adrian, and the order was shouted forward.
Not a man moved, except Callan, who came to the forecastle rail, and holding up a pistol, shouted back,—
“Surrender the ship, or we fire!”
Mr Adrian’s reply was to repeat the order just given, and draw his pistol.
One of the mutineers, sent forward by the leaders, advanced to the mainmast with a red flag in his hand, which he proceeded to fasten to the flag-lines and to hoist, bringing down the Union flag as he did so.
Mr Adrian levelled his pistol. There was a sharp, clear ring above the noise of the gale; the man flung up his arms, uttered a yell, and rolled over on the deck.
“Stand clear!” cried Callan, waving his men on either side of the forecastle guns. “Fire, my lads!”
There was a silence. No one on the quarter-deck stirred. Those on the forecastle who had stood with their faces our way, expecting to see the effect of the volley, looked round impatiently to see why the guns were mute.
Then came a cry of “Spiked!” followed by a howl of dismay as the contents of one of our quarter-deck guns crashed with a dull, savage roar on to the forecastle.
When the smoke cleared we saw a ghastly sight. Men lay in all directions—some blown to pieces, some groaning in pools of blood, some dragging themselves with livid faces to a place of shelter.
For my own part, I dreaded to hear Mr Adrian give the order to fire the second gun. The only thing which prevented it was the sudden clearing of the forecastle. All who could rushed to the main-deck, where at least they were below the range of the deadly grape.
Here Callan, who had escaped unhurt, called on his men to form, which they did in three straggling lines across the deck, howling execrations and flourishing their knives in our direction.
Before they could advance—before, indeed, those of them who carried pistols could fire—Mr Adrian, who had ranged us up behind the barricade, gave the signal to present arms and fire.
It was a volley almost as deadly as the first. Callan sprang a foot or two in the air, and fell back shot through the heart. The front rank of the mutineers went down like ninepins, and those behind fell back a pace in consternation, “Reload! Mark your men!” cried Mr Adrian, whose face was savage and as hard as a flint.
The wretches gathered themselves together after a moment’s hesitation, and stepping over the fallen bodies of their comrades, advanced with a half-hearted rush for the quarter-deck.
“Present! fire!” cried Mr Adrian.
Once more man after man went down dead or wounded, and the deck was strewn with bodies. A heavy sea at the moment broke over the quarter, sweeping the deck and clashing living and dead in a heap into the lee-scuppers. A few stood still, eyeing dubiously first one another, then the quarter-deck, then the waves as they broke across the waist.
“Reload! Mark your men!” cried Mr Adrian again, with a curl of his lips.
The mutineers heard the command, and dropping their weapons, retreated in a panic to the hatchways.
“Fire!” said Mr Adrian; “and after them, some of you, and make fast the hatches.”
The first order was not obeyed. It had been bad enough, in defence of the ship, to fire on one’s own shipmates, but to fire on their backs was too much; and Lieutenant Adrian probably understood as much when he saw that we all preferred his second order to his first.
It was a short business making good the hatchways, after first driving below the few stragglers who lingered above board. Then we had leisure to take stock of the execution our volleys had effected. Eleven men, including Callan and two of his fellow ringleaders, were dead. Eight more were mortally wounded, and thirty-eight lay hurt, some badly, some slightly. We lost no time in throwing the dead overboard, and carrying those most in need of succour out of the reach of the waves. Tarpaulins were spread for the rest till a place could be found for them in some of the after-cabins.
The doctor (who reported that Captain Swift had breathed his last while the engagement was at its height) did what he could to dress the wounds of the sufferers, and impressed the services of one or two of the handiest of the men present as assistants.
Just then, however, with the gale threatening every moment to snap the masts, it was even more important to get hands aloft to shorten sail. The midshipmen and officers gallantly undertook this difficult task, but not in time to save the main-topgallant mast, which fell with a crash, carrying away the purser and the boatswain’s mate, and fouling the rigging below with its wreck. No sooner was this cleared, and the top courses taken in, than the man who had been for some moments conning the strange sails on the horizon reported,—
“Two Dutchmen, sir, thirty-six guns a-piece, bearing this way.”
During the struggle with the mutineers we had almost forgotten the presence of these strangers, and now found them not a league away standing across the wind to meet us.
It was a hopeless venture to meet them, but Mr Adrian preferred it to putting the Zebra about and running away.
“Let them come,” said he; “they can’t do worse than these scoundrels down below. Stand by the guns, gentlemen!”
We obeyed willingly enough. Had Mr Adrian only been a gentleman as well as an officer we could have cheered him. But the vision of his face as he gave the word to mow down his own crew stuck in my memory and robbed me of all the enthusiasm which his present courage deserved.
On we sped, and nearer drew the Dutchmen. Evidently they were cruisers on the prowl for an enemy, or sent to observe the motions of our disorganised fleet. Had we been a sound company we might have held our own against the two of them. But crippled as we were, with our guns unmanned, our ammunition lost, and part of our crew lying wounded on deck, while the rest were prisoners below, we might as well have hoped to capture Rotterdam.
Fate, however, determined our destiny in her own way. Just as we were coming about, and those at the guns were blowing their matches for a first and possibly a last broadside, the Zebra gave a sudden shiver in every timber, there was a dull growl, followed an instant later by a terrific explosion which rent the vessel in twain, and dimmed the sky overhead with spars and smoke, and set the ship reeling on her beam-ends. At the moment, I was in the act of firing the charge of the gun in my care, and remember nothing but the tremendous noise, and finding myself hurled, as it seemed, clear over the breech of the weapon out into the boiling sea.
Instinctively I clutched at a spar within reach, and clung to it. All else I saw and heard as in a dream—the ship heeling over further and further, and the waves leaping on her as she plunged down; the cries and shrieks of the imprisoned wretches who sought to escape from the consequences of their own desperate revenge; the sea strewn with wreckage and struggling swimmers; the first lieutenant’s dying malediction flung into the wind from the quarter-deck; the looming hulls of the two Dutchmen as they hung in the wind and watched our fate. All, I say, passed like a grim nightmare. What woke me was an arm suddenly flung across me, and the white face of Mr Midshipman Gamble looking up at me out of the water.
I hauled him up on to the spar; and the effort to keep him afloat, and save myself from his wild struggles, helped me to find my wits.
“Easy, lad!” said I; “you’re safe enough here. Keep quiet!”
The sound of a voice steadied him, and he ceased his struggles, and let me lash him as best I could to the spar.
The Dutchmen, who had, no doubt, witnessed with anything but pleasure their prey snatched out of their hands, were humane enough to make a show of lowering a boat for the succour of those who still lived. But the heavy sea rendered this a very difficult and dangerous task, and after very little trying we had the dismay of seeing them abandon the attempt and haul off on their course, leaving us to our fate.
You may fancy with what feelings we watched them gradually growing less on the horizon, and realised that we were at the mercy of an angry sea, with no support but a piece of broken timber, and every moment finding ourselves more and more alone, as comrade after comrade gave up the struggle and fell back among the waves.
Presently Mr Gamble, whose leg, I found, had been crushed by the explosion, groaned, and his head fell forward. Three great waves in succession washed over us with the force of a falling wall; and when they had passed, and I looked to my companion, he was dead, with the life simply beaten out of him.
Sorrowfully enough I unlashed him, and let him drop beneath the pitiless water; and then, finding my own strength beginning to fail, I lashed myself under the arms and over the spar, and hung on for dear life. In this posture I spent weary hour after hour watching the waves, and endeavouring to ward off from my head the fury of their onslaught.
About mid-day the gale eased somewhat. I looked about me. Not a sign or vestige remained of the Zebra or her hapless crew. Not a floating thing among the waves caused me to count on the company of a living wretch like myself. Not even a livid corpse across my track served to remind me that I, of all that ship’s company, still clung to life.
Strange visions, as I rose and fell with the heaving sea, floated before my eyes. The gloomy kitchen at Kilgorman, and my mother’s letter gleaming under the hearthstone—the hollow on the cliff’s edge where Tim and I had once fought—Biddy McQuilkin sitting at the fireside in our cabin, setting her cap at my father—Miss Kit with the gun at her shoulder behind the hall-door at Knockowen—the unhappy old man being dragged to the guillotine in Paris—the lumbering barge floating down the Seine—Tim in the light of the lantern at the helm of the Kestrel;—these and many other visions chased one another across my memory, first in regular procession, then tripping one over the other, then all jumbled and mixed together in such chaos that it was Kit who was being haled to the guillotine, and Tim who lay below the hearthstone, and Biddy who navigated the barge.
Presently one vision seemed to hang in my memory longer than the others, and that was the light of the morning sun as it struck on the retreating sails of the brig Scheldt of Rotterdam, standing out to sea off Malin. One by one all my other fancies merged into this—the guillotine changed into a brig, the Kestrel changed into the Scheldt, the Kilgorman kitchen became a deck, and Miss Kit a Dutch skipper. Why was it? Why should everything come back to that one brig in the offing?
Suddenly I understood it. There, as I looked up from my restless raft and followed the gleam of the afternoon sun as it broke through the clouds, I perceived just such another vision in the offing—a brig, with canvas set, and the light glancing on her sails as she laboured over the waves towards me!
She may have been a mile away. By the look of her she was a foreign craft, and may have been a trader coasting between the Dutch ports. Whatever she was, the sight of her put new life into me.
I took my red scarf—the very scarf I had waved so vainly at the Scheldt scarce three weeks ago—and spreading it wide waved it with all the energy of which I was capable. How long the minutes seemed then! If she gave me the go-by, my last chance would go with her. Even as I raised myself to wave, my head reeled, and a dimness clouded my eyes.
Then, with a wonderful bound at my heart, half surprise, half joy, I saw the brig suddenly put about, while a flag waved at her stern showed that my signal had been seen. A minute later the welcome sight of a boat coming towards me assured me that I was saved, and with a cry of thankfulness to Heaven my weary head drooped, and the mist in my eyes became darkness.
What roused me was the consciousness of two strong arms round me, and the taste of liquid fire between my lips. My saviours, who were Dutchmen, had lifted me from the spar, and were plying me with spirits as I lay more dead than alive in the stern-sheets. I looked up. The sails of the brig, flapping against the wind, towered above me, and her dark hull as she swung over us hid the sun. The boat pulled round her stern to reach the lee-ladder. As we passed I glanced up, and my eyes fell on two words, painted in gilt letters—
“Scheldt. Rotterdam.”