Morton had been anticipating a delightful day: he was to have called, with Glover, on Mrs Edmonstone, and he hoped to have met Miss Armytage, who was staying with her; but his first thought on waking was the disagreeable circumstance which had occurred at the conclusion of the previous evening, and the still more disagreeable events to which it would in all probability give rise.
He was well aware how much the line of conduct he intended to pursue would be criticised, how the story would be garbled and misrepresented, and how, in all probability, he would be accused of showing the white feather. Under ordinary circumstances he would have been very indifferent to what was said of him: he could well afford to allow idle tongues to prattle forth slander about him till weary of the occupation, but he could not bear to fancy that Mrs Edmonstone, or rather her friend, should hear anything to his disadvantage which he might not be present to refute; still, happily, he had not forgotten Bertha Eswick’s remark, impressed on his mind in childhood—“Do what is right, lad, and never mind what men say of thee.”
The temptation of meeting Miss Armytage was at last too strong to be resisted, and with his captain and brother officers he repaired in the evening to the house of Mrs Edmonstone. Their hostess received them in the most friendly manner, and introduced them to several of her friends, so that they at once felt themselves at home. Morton’s eyes ranged round the room in search of Miss Armytage; she was nowhere to be seen. He longed to ask Mrs Edmonstone where she was, but he was withheld by a feeling of bashfulness very unusual with him. Numberless fears entered his mind. Was she prevented by illness from appearing—had her father heard who he was, and kept her away that she might not meet him; or had Colonel Armytage been suddenly called away to another part of the country, and had his daughter accompanied him?
That the latter suspicion was correct he was convinced by overhearing the disjointed remarks of some people near him: “Great loss to our society—quite unexpected—very charming woman—sweet girl, the daughter. About him—two opinions—proud—”
The speakers moved on. Morton was convinced that the sweet girl must refer to Miss Armytage—surely to no one else. But then came the thought that he was not to see her that evening—perhaps he might never again meet her. The pain and disappointment he felt opened his eyes more rapidly than anything else would have done to his own feelings. As to enjoying the evening, that was out of the question. Still it would be a satisfaction to hear something about her. He would inquire where Colonel Armytage had gone. He was looking round for Mrs Edmonstone, as he felt that he could ask her better than any one else, when his heart gave an unwonted bound, for he saw entering the room, and leaning on the arm of a fine military-looking man, whom he had no doubt was her father, Miss Armytage herself. On the other side of her, endeavouring to engage her in conversation, walked the stranger whom Glover thought so like Alfonse Gerardin. The resemblance struck Morton, as his glance fell on his countenance, as even greater than on the previous evening. Miss Armytage seemed rather annoyed than otherwise with his attentions. As Morton had been walking forward when he first saw the group he could not stop short, so he continued to advance. The young lady put out her hand frankly, though a gentle blush rose on her cheeks as she did so.
“Papa,” she said, “I must introduce Mr Morton to you. I am sure that you wish to thank him for the service he rendered me yesterday evening.”
Colonel Armytage bowed, and assured Mr Morton that he was exceedingly obliged to him; but he said this in a stiff way, which evidently annoyed his daughter.
“I was fortunate indeed in being at hand; but I can claim no merit,” replied Morton, in a modest manner.
Mrs Edmonstone came up and welcomed her young friend.
“I am so glad you have come back,” she exclaimed, affectionately taking her hand. “I was quite vexed at your having to run away to a dinner-party, lest you should be too tired to dance this evening.”
Edda assured her that she was not. She, on this, turned round quickly to Ronald. “You dance, sometimes, Mr Morton, I know.”
“Yes,” he answered quickly, stepping forward and asking Miss Armytage to dance.
She smiled and promised.
The young stranger looked very much annoyed. He had fancied himself secure of her hand. Many men of rank and wealth would have been proud of the honour Ronald had obtained, though not more proud than he was. That evening was the brightest he had ever spent. But there were clouds in the horizon. He learned that Colonel Armytage had received a high appointment at Bombay, and that they were about at once to sail for that presidency, on board the “Osterley,” a Company’s ship, which was to touch there on her passage home.
“We sail in two weeks or so,” said Miss Armytage. “I shall be truly sorry to leave Calcutta.”
“I had little expected to find it so delightful a place,” answered Ronald.
Miss Armytage slightly blushed when he said this. Why, she could scarcely tell. Perhaps it was his manner—perhaps an unconscious look he gave. Though many sought her hand, she declined dancing again, in consequence of feeling tired, from having danced so much the previous evening.
Ronald was constantly by her side; for whenever he left it, he was quickly again attracted back; nor was he ever in want of an excuse for returning. Towards the end of the evening he observed the eyes of several people glancing towards him. It struck him that he formed the subject of conversation, especially among a group of military men. It was not, however, till he happened to meet Sims that his suspicions were confirmed.
“I knew it would be so,” said his brother lieutenant. “The fellows here, among the military, have got an idea that you refused to fight Maguire; and I believe that donkey, Bolton, has been setting the story afloat. I should like to keel-haul him.”
“Let him alone; it matters little what so insignificant a fellow says or does,” observed Morton. “The story can hardly last out the usual nine days; and if we all behave well, we can allow these empty-headed fellows to amuse themselves for that time at our expense.”
The ball came to a conclusion without any unusual occurrence. Morton could not help feeling sure that he stood well in the opinion of Miss Armytage. He had so little conceit in his composition that it never for a moment occurred to him that he had excited any warmer sentiment.
After this he frequently met her at Mrs Edmonstone’s, as well as at other houses. She invariably received him in the same friendly manner, and exhibited evident pleasure in his society.
Probably she had not dared to probe her own feelings. Colonel Armytage treated him as he would any other young officer who had proved a credit to his profession. Mrs Edmonstone always treated him with the greatest consideration.
“I have told her all about you, sir,” said Dicky Glover one day. “That cousin of mine is a first-rate person, and she says she thinks it an honour to know you.”
“I am much obliged to her for her good opinion,” was Morton’s reply.
His spirits were somewhat low; the “Osterley” was about to sail. He had by chance become acquainted with her commander, Captain Winslow. By his invitation he was on board to receive Colonel Armytage and his family. He conducted Mrs and Miss Armytage over the ship.
“I wish that you were to accompany us in the frigate,” said Mrs Armytage. “In war time we do not know what enemies we may have to encounter.”
“I should indeed rejoice, if my duty would allow it; but I trust that you will have no cause for alarm: the ‘Osterley’ is said to be a fast ship, and report speaks highly of her commander, Captain Winslow.”
Mrs Armytage had spoken without thought. She had been much pleased with Morton, and it did not occur to her that her daughter might have been so likewise, in a far greater degree, or that he might misinterpret her remark.
“Oh, of course I see that would be out of the question,” she observed; “but perhaps the admiral would send your ship to Bombay, and then you could watch us. I do not know how it is, but I have a perfect dread of this voyage.”
Ronald Morton did his best to soothe the lady’s alarm, hoping also that she would not impart it to her daughter.
Colonel Armytage, when he rejoined the party, was considerably annoyed at hearing the remarks of his wife.
Ronald could not help feeling that his manner on the present occasion was colder than ever, and somewhat supercilious into the bargain. He, by some means or other, introduced the subject of duelling, and spoke of it as the only method by which gentlemen could settle their disputes. “Military men, of course, hold their lives in their hands, and the man who shirks a duel, or does not insist on having satisfaction for an insult offered him, should, in my opinion, leave the noble profession of arms and turn shopkeeper or shepherd. When I commanded a regiment, if any officer showed the white feather in that respect, I took good care that he should not long be one of ours.”
Morton could scarcely doubt that the colonel’s remarks were aimed at him; but he thought of his gentle daughter, and refrained from making any reply. A still higher motive might also have restrained him.
A pilot vessel accompanied the Indiaman till she was clear of the river. Morton was therefore able to accept Captain Winslow’s invitation to remain on board till the ship was left to pursue her voyage alone.
Had Colonel Armytage exhibited towards him, at first, the same temper that he did subsequently, he would have felt himself compelled, however much against his will, to return on shore. Fortunately the colonel was engaged for the greater part of the day in writing in his cabin, so that Ronald was able to enjoy several hours of uninterrupted intercourse with Miss Armytage; nor did he, when her father appeared, alter in the slightest degree his tone of conversation or manner towards her.
At length the huge Indiaman was fairly out at sea. The pilot announced that he must take his departure. Morton bade farewell to his friends. Mrs Armytage held out her hand frankly, and her daughter followed her example, though there was a softness and perceptible tremor in her voice which made him wish more than ever that he could take Captain Winslow’s place, or even that of one of his officers. Colonel Armytage parted with him with a cold shake of the hand and a formal “Good-bye, sir;” and he was in the boat and soon on board the pilot vessel. The Indiaman’s yards were swung round, and under all sail she stood to the southward.
No sooner had Morton reached the deck of the pilot vessel than, as he stood astern watching the Indiaman, his eye fell far beyond her, in the horizon, on a sail. He saw that it was a large ship. He pointed her out to the pilot.
“Yes, sir, there’s no doubt of it. She is a large ship,” was the answer. “Maybe she’s an Indiaman bound lip the Hooghly. Maybe she’s the ‘Rajah,’ which sailed two days ago, and has been becalmed; or a China ship looking in for orders; or one of the men-of-war on the station.”
“I care not what she is, provided she is not an enemy’s cruiser,” said Morton. “She seems to have very square yards.”
“Difficult to make that out, I should think,” muttered the pilot as he walked the deck, and then went forward to give some directions to his native crew.
Till the pilot vessel re-entered the Hooghly, and Morton lost sight of the Indiaman, his eye was seldom off her, while his thoughts were even still more constant.
Once more he was on board the “Thisbe.” He felt no inclination to revisit Calcutta, and he only went up there once to pay his respects to Mrs Edmonstone. She very naturally talked of Miss Armytage, and spoke warmly in her praise. It was a subject of which Morton was not likely to grow tired.
“Admiral Rainier tells me that he has ordered the ‘Thisbe’ to proceed to Bombay, so that you will have an opportunity of renewing your acquaintance with my young friend,” she added. “I think that I shall charge you with a small parcel for her; some articles which were not ready before she sailed.”
This was delightful news for Morton. He had not heard that there was any chance of the frigate being sent round to that presidency. Of course it was not out of the pale of probability that Mrs Edmonstone was likely to know where the ship was to be sent before the officers belonging to her. Two or three days passed before the captain himself had the information confirmed by the admiral’s secretary.
“You are right, Morton,” he said when he came on board. “We are bound for Bombay, and if we put our best foot foremost we shall get there as soon as that old tea-chest, the ‘Osterley.’”
Morton got his parcel from Mrs Edmonstone, and three days afterwards the “Thisbe’s” keel was ploughing the waters of the Indian Ocean. During the voyage one pair of eyes, at all events, kept a bright look out for any sail of the appearance of the “Osterley” Indiaman. The second lieutenant was continually going aloft, spy-glass in hand, sweeping the horizon. Some of his shipmates might have suspected the cause, but he gave no reason for this practice which he had adopted. It was war time, and he might have been on the look-out for an enemy.
“We shall be much obliged to you, Morton, if you make out a rich prize some day,” observed Sims. “A Dutchman from Java, or a Spaniard from the Manillas, would be about the thing.”
Day after day passed, but neither friend nor foe was seen.
At length, however, the “Thisbe” touched at Ponte de Galle, when she fell in with another frigate direct from England, which had letters on board for her. Ronald got one from his father. He could not bring himself to live on shore, and having applied for employment, had been appointed boatswain of a line-of-battle ship, the “Lion,” which, it was expected, would be sent out to the East India station.
Ronald Morton loved and honoured his father too well not to feel pleasure at the thoughts of meeting him; at the same time he wished that he could have retired and remained on shore till he could join him.
Without further adventure the frigate came off Bombay.
“The Indiaman you were on the look-out for must have arrived before us,” observed Captain Calder, pointing to a large ship which lay in the roads.
With a beating heart Ronald watched her as they drew near; but as the “Thisbe” dropped her anchor at a short distance off, he saw that he was mistaken. The “Osterley” had not arrived, and considerable alarm was expressed by those who had been expecting her.
The non-arrival of the “Osterley” at Bombay created considerable anxiety in all those who had friends on board, or who were otherwise interested in her in their feelings or purses. At length the fears for her safety became so great that Captain Calder was requested to sail in search of her. No one received with more satisfaction the announcement that the ship was to put to sea than did Ronald Morton; at all events he would be doing the only thing in which he could now take an interest. His heart had been tortured with a thousand fears as to the fate of one whom he had discovered that he ardently loved. Had nothing unusual occurred it probably would have taken him much longer to ascertain the true state of his heart: misfortune has a wonderful power of testing the feelings and revealing their condition.
Neither Rawson nor Sims could make him out, they agreed.
“What can have come over the poor fellow?” said the latter. “The climate does not agree with him; he should go home invalided.”
Glover might have suspected the true state of the case, but he kept his counsel to himself.
The “Thisbe” overhauled every vessel she fell in with, and made inquiries at numerous places as she ran down the coast, but nothing was to be heard of the “Osterley.” She rounded Ceylon, and stood across the Indian Ocean. Ronald Morton had kept a sharp look-out for any strange sail before, on the passage to Bombay; he kept a sharper look out now.
The frigate had got about a third of the way across the Bay of Bengal, when the second lieutenant, who, much to the surprise of his subordinates, spent many of his spare moments aloft, made out a sail to the southward steering west. She was a large ship, but whether man-of-war or merchantman, friend or foe, it was impossible to say. Ronald came on deck, and all sail was made in chase; the idea seized him that the ship in sight was the one of which they were in search.
“I am afraid you will be disappointed,” remarked Captain Calder. “She is probably some homeward-bound Indiaman from China; this would be her track, remember.”
The chase did not alter her course, but all the sail she could carry was packed on her; she sailed well, but the frigate sailed better; there was a fear that she might not overtake her till nightfall. Morton walked the deck with greater impatience than he had ever before exhibited, now looking out to windward, now at the sails, now at the chase; as the frigate drew nearer the chase, the opinions were strongly in favour of her being an Indiaman.
“But if she is, why should she run away?” observed Glover, who was always inclined to side with Morton.
“An Indiaman she is,” observed Rawson. “I hope soon we may be near enough to send a shot across her fore-foot.”
The chase sailed well, and though the frigate gained on her it was not at a rate to satisfy Morton’s impatience. It was getting dusk as they drew near; his glass had scarcely ever been off the chase.
“That must be the ‘Osterley;’ and yet it is strange,” he exclaimed. “What can have happened to her?”
The frigate at length ranged up alongside. By this time it was dark; lights were seen glimmering through her ports. Captain Calder hailed. “Wa, wa, wa,” was the only answer he received.
“She must be in the hands of an enemy,” he said.
Morton’s heart sank within him.
“Heave-to, or we fire!” cried the captain.
In a little time the creaking of blocks was heard, and the Indiaman’s courses being hauled up, she slowly came to the wind. The frigate hove-to to windward of her, a boat was lowered and manned, and Morton leaped into her, followed by Glover.
“Give way, lads!” shouted the lieutenant, eagerly.
She was soon alongside; her officers and their followers scrambled on board: little help was afforded them to do so; on the contrary, the expression of the countenances which looked down on them, seen by the glare of the lanterns, showed that if not backed by the guns of the frigate, they would have been received at the points of boarding-pikes and with the muzzles of pistols presented at their heads. The determined looks of the sturdy man-of-war’s men made the crew of the Indiaman hold back. Directly Ronald stepped on board he glanced his eye anxiously around; he had no longer any doubt that she was the “Osterley,” but with not a face that met his gaze was he acquainted.
A rough piratical-looking man, in a naval uniform, stepped forward, sword in hand, and presenting the hilt with an air which none but a Frenchman could assume, said—
“Monsieur, the fortune of war places us in your power; we yield ourselves prisoners, and claim your clemency.”
“On what ground do you claim that? Where are the passengers and crew of this ship who sailed in her from Calcutta?” exclaimed Ronald.
“The fortune of war threw them into our hands, as we have been thrown into yours,” answered the captain, drawing himself up. “The courtesy for which our nation is famed has prompted their captors to treat them with courtesy.”
“I trust so,” exclaimed Morton, with a look which the Frenchman could not fail to understand. “But tell me—what commission do you bear? Do you belong to the Imperial marine of France?”
Morton asked these questions with an agitation he could scarcely conceal, for from the appearance of the captain and his crew he could not help dreading that those in whom he took so deep an interest had fallen into the power of a band of pirates; all the atrocities of which such ruffians could be guilty occurred to him.
“Speak, man; tell me—what are you?” he shouted, for the man seemed to be hesitating about giving a reply.
“What we are you perceive, monsieur,” he answered. “We are cavaliers and Frenchmen, and are at present prisoners to an honourable enemy; as such we expect to be treated.”
“How you are ultimately treated depends on your conduct towards those whom you have had in your power,” said Morton. “Enable us to recover them, and you need have no fear on that score.”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and protested that he had had nothing to do with the capture of the Indiaman; that he had been put in charge of her by others to carry her home, and, moreover, that he knew nothing of the passengers, except that he had been assured that they were in safety.
When Morton interrogated him as to where he had last come from, he declared that he had been, with his crew, put on board at sea, from a country craft, and the captors of the ship had taken all the passengers out and carried them he knew not where.
Ronald would not believe this statement; but the man persisted in it, and seemed obstinately determined to make no other Captain Calder directed Morton to take command of the recaptured “Osterley,” and Glover went as his lieutenant, with a couple of midshipmen, Job Truefitt, Bob Doull, and about thirty other hands. They not being sufficient to work the Indiaman, some twenty of the prisoners were retained on board her. It now became a question what course to steer. At length, as the wind was favourable, Captain Calder resolved to return to Calcutta, and should he not hear of the missing prisoners, to get the admiral to send some other ship in search of them. This determination of the captain was the only consolation Morton could obtain. Still the fact of their having fallen in with the Indiaman was of itself considerable encouragement.
Two or three days passed by; the wind was light, and not much way was made. It would be difficult to describe the varied feelings with which Morton visited the cabins which had been occupied by the Armytage family.
To calm the agitation of his mind, he went on deck and paced up and down by himself. At length, as he turned to walk forward, he saw Bob Doull coming aft, hat in hand, to the quarter-deck. The young seaman gave the usual hitch to his waistband, with a scrape of his foot, while he swung back his hat, and then waited till his superior looked as if he was ready to listen to him.
“What is it, Doull?” asked Morton.
“Please, sir, I’ve found among these outlandish chaps forward, we took aboard the prize, an old man who says as how he knows something about me, sir,” said Bob, twisting his hat round and round.
“About you, my man; who can he be?” inquired the lieutenant.
“Why, sir, he says as how he’s my daddy,” answered Doull, bluntly. “He may be, cause as how my daddy went away to foreign parts many years gone by, and never came back; but if he is, he’s a rum sort of one. I can’t say as how I takes much to the old gentleman as yet.”
“Let me see the man, and hear his story,” said Morton. “I had no idea that we had an Englishman among the prisoners.”
“Bring him aft at once; let him speak to no one; I must question him.”
Before long, Bob Doull was seen dragging along a tall, gaunt, grey-headed man, with a long beard and moustache, on whose head it was evident neither scissors nor razors had operated for many a year past. He was dressed like a French sailor, and except for a peculiar gait and certain movement characteristic of a British seaman, he would have been taken for a Frenchman.
“Please, sir, this old man says as how he is my father,” began Bob, handing him aft on the quarter-deck. “Come, cheer up, and tell Lieutenant Morton all you know.”
The old man cast an inquiring, doubtful look at Morton’s countenance, but seemingly satisfied with his scrutiny, he exclaimed, “I want, sir, to make a clean breast of it. For many years of my life I haven’t known what happiness is, and don’t ever expect to know it again.”
“As to that,” said Morton, interrupting him, “I’ll hear you by-and-by; but first, I wish to know where you have come from, and where the passengers and crew of this ship are now to be found?”
“I was coming to all that presently,” persisted the old man. “It’s of the past I want to speak.”
“But, man, lately, what have you done?—what crimes have you committed?” exclaimed Morton.
“None that I know of,” answered the seaman. “I was always a wild blade, from the time I first set foot on a ship’s deck. There was no mischief I was not up to, no crime I feared committing. I had done many bad things, but the worst was to come. I was still a lad, and so was my chum, Archy Eagleshay, and another, an older man, and older in crime, too, but he’s gone to his account, as we must all go, great and small.”
“You speak truth, my man,” exclaimed Morton, now losing all patience. “Again I ask you to pass over your early days, and to come to the latter events of your career. How did you happen to be on board this ship, among a set of Frenchmen and ruffians of all nations?”
“That was what I was coming to tell you, sir,” giving a peculiar look at Morton, who was doubtful whether it was caused by stupidity or obstinacy. He saw, at all events, that there was no use in attempting to draw forth the information he required before the old man was ready to give it.
After a pause, seeing that Morton was not again going to speak, the old man continued: “Well, as I was saying, sir, he who is gone came to Eagleshay and me, and says he, ‘Are you lads ready to gain more golden guineas than you ever set eyes on in your life?’ Of course we were. ‘It’s nothing but carrying off a slip of a baby who can do little more than talk, and just leaving him in the plantations.’ We didn’t ask questions, but we went on board a little sloop he owned, and then we waited, cruising about, till one evening he told us to pull on shore, and there we found a nurse and child, and the woman gave us the child. Away we went with it aboard the sloop, and made sail, and never dropped anchor till we reached the port of Dublin. Then our captain sold the sloop, and we all went aboard a ship and sailed for America. We didn’t reach it though. We had done a cursed deed, and God’s curse was to follow us. Our ship went down, and we were left floating on a raft; we were well-nigh starved, when a ship fell in with us, and we were taken on board. The captain was a kind-hearted man, and he said he would take care of the little fellow; and as our captain—he that’s gone—had got the money for the deed he’d done, he didn’t try to keep him; indeed, he could not have kept him if he’d wished; and so the good captain drew up a paper from what we’d told him, and he made us put our names to it, and he went and locked it up, and after that he never talked about the matter. We didn’t know what he might do, so we ran from the ship at the first port we came to. From that day to this I never set eyes on the youngster, or heard of the good captain again. Well, one bad thing leads to another. We all then went out to the West Indies, and we shipped aboard some strange craft, and strange flags they sailed under. It was difficult to know, when you came on deck, what was flying at the peak. There were many things done which sickened me, and some of my shipmates I saw hung up at Port Royal in a way I didn’t like, and at last I got away back to England. I then took a wife. Many years, you’ll understand, had passed by. I thought I was going to remain on shore, and be quiet and honest. I’d one little chap born, and I began to be fonder of him than I had been of any living creature before; but I was short of money, and the old feeling came over me. When I wanted it out in the West Indies then I took it. I now did a thing or two which made me fly the country. From that day to this I have never set foot on the shores of old England.”
Morton thought that he might now venture to interrupt the old man. He had been so anxiously waiting for the account he might give of the passengers, that he paid little attention to the first part of the narrative.
The old man declared that he knew nothing particular about them. He was on the other side of the island when the Indiaman arrived. He knew that a number of people had been landed, and that huts had been built for them, and that they were living on shore; but sentries were placed in the neighbourhood of the spot, and no one was allowed to pass to communicate with them.
“But what is the character of the men who have possession of the islands? Are they men-of-war’s men, privateers, or pirates?” inquired Ronald.
The answer the old man gave was not perfectly satisfactory. “They might be pirates, for they were a rough set; but then privateers were often rough enough, and little better. Then again some of the ships which came in wore pennants, and the officers had uniforms; but it was easy enough for a privateer or a pirate to fly a pennant, and any man could put on a uniform, as he had often seen done by villains who finished their career by being hung up in chains.”
Morton took several turns on the deck. Could nothing satisfactory be made out of the old man? “Could you find your way back again to those islands you speak of?” he asked.
“Maybe I could tell the course we’ve steered; for when it has been my trick at the helm I marked it well—it has always been the same. Five days had passed since we tripped our anchor before you fell in with us. Nor’-west by west, half west; and we ran between seven and eight knots an hour—seldom less, I should say. There, sir, can you make anything out of that?”
“I hope so; and could you pilot us into the harbour from which you sailed?” asked the lieutenant.
“That I could, I am bold to say, seeing that I’ve been fishing over every spot of it for the last ten years, or more,” said the old man.
“That will do, Mr Doull. Stay aft here, with your son, as you say he is; and I think you are right, for there is a likeness. I will trust to you, and I will do my best, if you prove true, to get you pardoned for any offence against the laws which you have committed.”
Ronald called Glover and signalised the frigate. Both ships hove-to, and he went on board. His consultation with Captain Calder was soon over, and on his return both ships shaped a course in the direction indicated by the old man.
When the “Osterley” left Calcutta she stood across the Bay of Bengal, and there appeared to be every prospect of a favourable commencement of the voyage. She had a good many passengers, but not so many as she would have had, probably, had she been going home direct. They were chiefly married ladies, accompanying their children; or civilians, or military men returning after many years’ service; or invalids, hoping to regain their health in the land of their birth.
Altogether, Miss Armytage did not expect to find much to interest her among the companions of her voyage, as they, one after the other, made their appearance on the poop-deck of the Indiaman, on which she was seated. It is possible that, while the pilot vessel continued in sight, she might have taken an occasional glance to ascertain how the little vessel was performing her voyage, and afterwards it is certain that she was lost in a reverie, from which she was not aroused till her mother had several times addressed her with the inquiry whether she was not excessively hungry, and would go down and get ready for dinner. Mrs Armytage was a very good-natured woman, and not destitute of sense, but she had no romance in her composition. She was a great contrast to her unhappy sister, Hilda.
Edda aroused herself. “Yes, mamma; if it is necessary to appear at dinner, I will go down with you.”
“Of course, dear; and here is Captain Winslow coming to offer you his arm.”
However, he offered it to Mrs Armytage herself, and with his most polite of bows, begged that they would take their seats near him at table. Captain Winslow was courteous to all his passengers, but he certainly paid more attention to the Armytage party than to all the rest.
After dinner, most of the passengers were collected on the poop, watching two vessels which appeared in the distance. One was evidently a native craft, a Dhow or Pattarmar, from her high stern, curiously-projecting bow, and lofty lateen sail. She had apparently communicated with the other stranger, which was a ship of some size, and was now working in towards the land.
The ship engrossed the chief attention of the passengers. She was a flush-decked vessel or corvette—large for that class of craft, with very square yards. Miss Armytage hoped that her mother would not overhear the observations which the appearance of the strange sail called forth. She was looked upon by all as a very suspicious craft. Under what flag she sailed was a question, but it was very evident that she was a man-of-war, a privateer, or a pirate. She was an armed vessel—she was not a British man-of-war—she might be an English privateer, but she had the look of a foreigner.
By degrees the suspicions respecting the character of the stranger increased, till few had any doubt that he was an enemy. Captain, Winslow, however, was not to be intimidated by the appearance of the ship. Captain Winslow had probably made up his own mind as to what he would do, but, under the circumstances of the case, he judged it necessary to call his officers and the principal passengers together, to ask their opinion as to what course should be pursued. Colonel Armytage was, of course, summoned to the consultation. The captain opened the proceedings.
“No one will doubt that, should the sail in sight prove an enemy—for that has not yet been ascertained—we should run for it,” he observed. “There is no disgrace in that; our business is to carry passengers and cargo, and we shall do wisely to stick to our business as long as we can; but the question, gentlemen, which I have to submit to your consideration is, shall we fight and defend our ship, the passengers and property confided to our care, or shall we yield to what may prove superior force?”
“Superior force or not, I say, sir, by the powers! let us fight it out to the last, and drive off the enemy,” exclaimed the first mate. He spoke out of order, but his opinion was echoed by his brother officers, and by most of the passengers, Colonel Armytage was in favour of fighting to the last.
“Should she prove a privateer, and we take her, we should do well to hang every one of her crew up to the yard-arm as pirates, for they are in no degree better,” he exclaimed, in a tone which showed his annoyance at the prospect of so disagreeable an interruption to their voyage.
“We shall do well to take the enemy before we decide what is to be done with him,” observed the captain.
Some few of the passengers were for temporising measures; they proposed hoisting a flag of truce, and endeavouring to come to terms with the enemy.
“Not very likely, gentlemen, that if the enemy think they have the power to take the ship, and everything on board her, they will be content with a portion,” answered the captain. “The majority are decidedly for fighting; we will prepare the ship for action.”
The Indiaman was kept on her course, but all the sail she could possibly carry was set on her. The stranger was at this time to the south-east, her hull just rising above the horizon.
The Indiaman was before the wind, so was the stranger, but her courses were brailed up, and she was evidently waiting for some purpose or other; she certainly, at present, did not look like an object to be dreaded.
The alarm of the ladies gradually subsided, till they began to wonder why it should be thought necessary to make such preparations for fighting; why the shot was got up, the powder-tubs filled, and the guns loaded, and boarding nettings made ready for rigging.
For some time the stranger did not appear to alter her position. When, however, at length the Indiaman, under all sail, began to put forth her speed, giving evidence that she might be many leagues to the southward by nightfall, the ship in the distance let fall her courses, and her head coming round, she was seen to be steering a course which would intersect that of the “Osterley.”
“It will come to a fight, sir, I suspect,” observed the captain to Colonel Armytage.
“So much the better, for I suppose that there is but little doubt that we shall beat off the enemy,” answered the colonel. “We have plenty of men, and some serviceable guns, and I trust your fellows will do their duty like men.”
“I trust so, too, sir; but probably that ship out there has more men and longer guns than we have,” said the captain, gravely. “We should not conceal from ourselves that the contest will be a severe one, at all events, and the termination doubtful. I would not say this to the crew, or to the passengers generally, but in the event of disaster, how are we to protect the helpless beings committed to our charge—the ladies and children? Some of these Frenchmen, I have heard, are fiends incarnate in the moment of victory, and if we offer a stout resistance, and are conquered at last, what is to be done?”
“I should feel inclined to blow up the ship rather than run any risk of the ladies suffering violence,” exclaimed the colonel, pacing the deck in an agitated manner.
“That were scarcely right in the sight of God, or wise in that of men,” said the captain, calmly: “I had to propose that at a signal which the chief officer who survives shall give they all assemble in the main cabin, and that then we rally round them, and refuse to yield till the enemy agree to terms.”
“Your plan is good, but you look at the dark side of things,” remarked Colonel Armytage.
“I look at both sides, sir,” was the answer. “The ‘Osterley’ is a fast ship, and we may run away from our pursuer; if we are overtaken, we may beat her off, or after all she may prove to be no enemy at all. You see, sir, I turn the state of the case right round; I like to settle beforehand how, under all circumstances, I shall act.”
“I see, Captain Winslow, you are a man of forethought—a useful quality in your profession,” said Colonel Armytage, though he did not make the remark with the best possible grace. In truth, he was inclined to look down on the sea captain as a person of a very inferior grade to himself, though compelled under peculiar circumstances to associate with him. With one of his formal bows he said that he must go below to make the ladies understand the arrangements contemplated for them.
Edda heard of the expected combat with perfect calmness.
“How I pity the poor men who may be wounded in the battle!” she remarked.
Her father sneered.
“May we go on deck and help them?” she asked suddenly. “I am sure that we can be of use.”
“Certainly not,” he answered, sternly. “We shall have enough to do without being interrupted by the interference of women.”
“Oh, father! do not say that,” said Edda. “We would be of all the use in our power; we would tend the wounded; we would take food to those who were weary; we would carry up powder and shot if required. I have read of women doing such things. Why should not we?”
“Because there are men enough to fight, and it is considered that you will be safer down below,” said Colonel Armytage, casting a look of involuntary admiration at his daughter. “Round shots are no respecters of persons, and one might destroy you or your mother or the other women as readily as the roughest man on board. In Heaven’s name, child, keep out of danger.”
A part of the hold was quickly arranged for the accommodation of the ladies during the expected action. Two lanterns were hung up in it below the beams, but notwithstanding all that was done, it was a very dreary, dark abode. Edda entreated that she and her mother might remain on deck till they were within range of the enemy’s guns. Most of the other ladies followed her example, and the deck once more resumed its usual orderly appearance, though there were signs of the expected strife in the warlike costumes of the gentlemen, who walked up and down with swords buckled to their sides, pistols in their belts, or muskets on their shoulders.
The captain had not vainly boasted of the sped of the ship, and, as he now hauled up a little to the westward there appeared to be a considerable chance of her running the stranger out of sight during the night. Darkness was now coming on. The stranger was seen on the lee-quarter continuing the pursuit under all sail. Some of the more timid suggested that part of the cargo should be thrown overboard to lighten the ship, so as to afford them a better chance of escaping, but to this the captain would not consent. He was responsible for the property. He hoped to defend it and every part of it, and even if hove away it could do little to aid their escape. His calmness and determination infused courage into all around him. Night came on. The stranger was still far beyond gunshot. Not a light was allowed to be shown on board the Indiaman. The ladies were induced to retire to their cabins, many under the happy belief that all danger had passed, and that they might look forward to a pleasant continuance of the voyage. None of the officers or crew, however, went below.
Many of the passengers also remained on deck. As night closed in, far off was still to be seen the dark outline of the stranger ship. Was she gaining on the “Osterley?” Captain Winslow and his officers looked and looked again. There seemed to be little doubt about that. No more canvas could be clapped on the Indiaman. Everything had been done that could be thought of to make her sail fast. A hurricane just then would have been welcome. Clouds were gathering in the sky, and, as the night drew on, the darkness increased. At length the stranger was hid from sight. Some declared that they could still see her, but Captain Winslow was of opinion that they were mistaken. Still even he, as he walked the deck, continued to cast many an anxious glance astern. He called his first officer to him, and they held an earnest consultation together.
“We’ll try it,” he observed; and the yards were squared away, and the Indiaman was once more steering to the southward dead before the wind; it was her best point of sailing. It was hoped that the stranger, believing that she was bound for Madras, would continue the chase in that direction. The darkness continued.
“Well, sir, I trust that we have given that suspicious-looking gentleman the go-by,” observed the captain to Colonel Armytage. “Perhaps it might be better to inform the ladies of this, to tranquillise any alarm they may still feel.”
“Have no anxiety on that score. I do not allow my wife and daughter to indulge in idle apprehensions,” answered the colonel in the supercilious tone in which he frequently spoke.
“This man may be a very important personage, but he is a very disagreeable one,” thought Captain Winslow, as he turned away.
The worthy captain was well-nigh wearied out, so, summoning his first officer to take charge of the deck, he returned to his cabin to endeavour to snatch a short rest, leaving directions to be summoned should any change occur in the present state of things.
The first officer had been one of the most anxious to fight. He believed that they might not only beat off the enemy, but take her also, and he now kept a bright look-out, hoping that she might again appear. He was a young man, and thought more of the honour and glory to be gained than of the risk to be run. Over and over again his night-glass swept round in the direction of the eastern horizon. The range of his vision was limited. After taking a long gaze he suddenly exclaimed, “There she is though!” He called an old quartermaster and bade him take the glass.
“Yes, sir, she’s the ship, there’s no doubt about it. She has been keeping way easily with us,” observed the seaman. “I’d sooner that craft, Mr Lloyd, were a hundred miles away, or a thousand, for that matter, than where she is: we none of us likes her looks, and she’ll prove a rummish customer if she gets alongside of us.”
“Oh, never fear, Davis; you’ll all fight like Britons, and beat her off; or take her, maybe. But call the captain, and let him know our friend is in sight, away on the larboard beam.”
Captain Winslow was on deck in an instant. He had been dreaming of the stranger. There she moved like a dark phantom, silently stalking over the waters.
There was something peculiarly ominous in her appearance. The very silence with which she glided on through the darkness was threatening. She soon came up within range, but not a shot was fired. There she remained gliding on, with her courses brailed up, keeping pace with the Indiaman. It was very evident that she might have come down upon her long before had she chosen.
The approach of the stranger quickly became known in the cabin, and the gentlemen passengers were soon congregating on deck, many of them buckling on their swords and examining the locks of their pistols by the light of the binnacle lamp. Various opinions were offered. Some thought that Captain Winslow ought to begin the battle by firing a broadside into the stranger; but he declined the proposal, and suggested that it would be better to ascertain first whether she was inimically disposed.
“She can scarcely be a friend, or she would not frighten people so horribly,” observed some one, but the speaker was not discovered.
The remark produced a laugh, and the spirits of the more timid began to rise.
“Perhaps the gentleman intends to wait till daylight to commence sport,” observed the previous speaker.
Another hour passed by; Captain Winslow could not help feeling that his ship was completely in the power of the stranger. She evidently sailed two feet to his one; could shoot ahead and rake him, or could stand off and cannonade him with her long guns, without his being able to return a shot. A sturdy Briton as he was, he almost wished, for the sake of all on board, especially of the females, that it had been determined to yield at once.
“No, no, that would never do,” he muttered soon after to himself; “we’ll fight, and defend them like men.”
The stranger had been edging in nearer and nearer to the Indiaman. The ladies had been assembled and sent to their apartment in the hold. They were told it was only as a precautionary measure in case of an action. They endeavoured to keep up each other’s spirits, hoping for the best. Miss Armytage sat by her mother, calm and resigned, endeavouring to read, but her mind often left the page and wandered far away.
Some few tried to talk, but they found the effort vain. A few young girls laughed and joked, and tried to persuade themselves that there was nothing to dread, but they too soon became silent, and the whole party sat patiently waiting for the event they dreaded, yet hoped might be avoided. They had no means of ascertaining what was taking place; Edda offered to go up and learn, but her mother entreated her to remain where she was, reminding her of her father’s commands. The time passed slowly by; many thought that it must be soon day. All hoped that it would be, for they fancied that with the light the stranger would be discovered to be a friend. Not a sound from the deck above reached them. The silence itself was painful. It was suddenly broken by the deep-toned voice of the captain speaking through a trumpet. Then came the concussion and fierce roar of the guns overhead, followed by the thunder of those of their opponent, and the crash of the shot as they tore their way through the sides of the ship. Many of the ladies shrieked loudly, with wild fright, and clung trembling to each other. Yes, the bloody fight had really begun; how would it terminate? Next there was a crashing sound as if the ship had struck on a rock, and she trembled in all her timbers, and there was still the roar of the great guns, but added to it the rattle of musketry; and now followed wild shouts and shrieks, and the clashing of steel as cutlass met cutlass, and men strove desperately for life, and there was the sharp report of pistol shots, and the cries increased; and there was the tramping of feet, every moment becoming louder, and the clashing of swords, and the shouts and cries growing nearer. And now one of the officers rushed down the ladder. His face was pale; there was blood on his arm.
“Ladies, we will defend you to the last,” he exclaimed. “But come up on the main-deck, and keep together. We have been boarded and overpowered. We have rallied on the afterpart of the deck, and hold it still; but there is no time to be lost.”
Miss Armytage and her mother were the first to lead the way. When they reached the main-deck they saw the gallant band of the defenders struggling with overwhelming numbers of the enemy. In the front rank was Colonel Armytage. A huge seaman, a negro, had attacked him, and was pressing him hard. He seemed to be already wounded; others were rushing on. His foot slipped and he fell. His opponent’s cutlass was uplifted to give him a blow, which must have proved fatal, when a young officer sprang forward, interposed his own sword, and turned aside the weapon of his enemy.
“Yield, sir,” he exclaimed in French. “You are a prisoner, and your life shall be respected.” As he spoke, aided by the others, he dragged the colonel, no longer able to resist, out from the mêlée, and at that moment Edda recognised him as the young stranger whom she had met so frequently at Calcutta.
“All who yield shall have quarter,” cried a voice from among the assailants of the British. “We are honourable enemies, and seek the lives of none who no longer resist. The ladies shall be protected.”
“It’s Hobson’s choice,” said one of the passengers: “let us make terms while we can.”
Several others expressed the same opinion. Indeed, it was evident that further resistance was useless. The ship was already in possession of the enemy. The captain was not with them. Where he was, no one knew. Too probably he was wounded; perhaps killed. Colonel Armytage was a prisoner. The first officer lay desperately wounded in the front rank of the little band, who had so gallantly held out to the last.
“Drop your swords, brave enemies, and the Frenchman who makes another stroke at your head, dies,” said the voice.
Although many had but little faith in the promise, they yielded to necessity. The captors, however, kept their word.
The captain, a stout middle-aged man, came forward, and taking the swords of the officers, bowed to the group of ladies, and assured them that everything in his power would be done for their accommodation.
“Oh, bring my father, then!” exclaimed Miss Armytage. “Let us attend to him, should he be hurt.”
“The officer, my lieutenant, took prisoner?—certainly. He shall be placed under your charge, madam,” answered the captain, with a bow.
As soon as it was daylight, the English part of the Indiaman’s crew, with the officers, as well as the military men among the passengers, were removed on board her captor, which proved to be “La Sybille,” a French privateer corvette. Her name had lately become known for the havoc she had committed among the British merchantmen, many of which had been carried off, but what had afterwards become of them it had not been hitherto ascertained.
It was a great relief to Edda to receive a visit from Captain Winslow. He was wounded, and having been knocked down and stunned when the Frenchman boarded, he had not recovered till the ship was completely in their power.
Several of the Indiaman’s officers and crew had been killed or wounded, but the bloody signs of the conflict had been removed when the ladies once more appeared on deck. Strangers navigated the ship, and Edda observed that her Calcutta acquaintance had the command. He approached, however, but seldom, and always with the signs of the most profound respect. Edda sometimes observed him standing at a distance, watching her, with his arms folded on his bosom, and a melancholy expression in his countenance. Still, she did not altogether like his look, though it would have been difficult for her to determine why. One thing certainly was against him. He had been acting the part of a spy at Calcutta, and it at once occurred to her, that it was probably owing to the information he had obtained that the “Osterley” had been watched for, and fallen into the hands of the enemy. Señor Gerardo, as he had called himself, at the same time paid the greatest attention to Colonel Armytage, and seemed to anticipate all his wants; indeed, no captors could have behaved with more attention to their prisoners than did the officers of “La Sybille” to the passengers of the “Osterley.”
The two ships were now sailing together, to the eastward of south, but where they were going, no one could ascertain. A sentry was stationed at the compass, and though they were allowed to range anywhere else about the ship, when any one drew near that, they were civilly ordered to move away. Ten or more days passed, and the two ships lay at anchor in a beautiful bay, among a group of islands, some of considerable elevation, and covered with all the varied productions of the tropics. There were few signs of cultivation, but there were numerous huts and tents scattered about, and it was evident that the island had been taken possession of by the French as a rendezvous for their cruisers. Another Indiaman lay at anchor with her masts and spars in a shattered condition, as if she had met with a gale on her passage there, and had not been in a fit condition to send away. On a near inspection a battery was discovered thrown up on each side of the bay, while a strong fort in the centre commanded the anchorage, and sentries were seen pacing the beach to prevent the possibility of any prisoners escaping.
The passengers remained on board two days, while workmen were seen on shore, erecting fresh huts. During this time, Lieutenant Gerardo was constant in his attentions to Edda, but they were so delicately offered, and his manners were so gentlemanly and refined, that she was almost angry with herself for not feeling more grateful. At last the whole party were directed by the French captain who came on board, to prepare for going on shore, and informed that they were at liberty to take every part of their private property with them.
“We do not war with individuals, and we feel deeply the necessity we are under of placing a restraint on your actions.”
The young lieutenant expressed his great regret at no longer being allowed to have charge of them. “Still I trust, Miss Armytage, that you will allow me occasionally to come and inquire after your health. ‘La Sybille’ requires repairs, and will be detained here some time.”
At first Colonel Armytage received him with great coldness, naturally looking on him with contempt, as having played the dishonourable part of a spy during his visit to Calcutta; but the lieutenant explained the cause of his appearance there so much to the colonel’s satisfaction, and his attentions were so unremitting and delicate, that he completely won his way into the good graces of the English officer.
Gerardo was too acute an observer not to have discovered the authority Colonel Armytage exercised over his family, and he fancied that the most certain way of winning the daughter was first to gain over the father. By degrees also he obtained the good opinion of Mrs Armytage. He never obtruded his services, but he offered them to her in so delicate a manner, and showed so much pleasure in being employed, that it was scarcely possible for her to refuse them. All the fruits and flowers which the islands produced were collected and brought to her and her daughter, often not obtained without difficulty, while numberless objects of interest, evidently taken out of prizes, were offered for their acceptance.
Very few of the other officers came near them; indeed, they appeared generally to be of a different stamp to the captain and his first lieutenant.
“We really might be very happy here if we did not wish to be elsewhere,” observed Mrs Armytage to her daughter.
“Yes, certainly,” remarked another lady. “But what shall we do when our clothes wear out? It will be shocking not to be able to get any of the new fashions. I am afraid our polite captain and Monsieur Gerardo will not think half as much about us then.”
“You don’t suppose that we are to be kept here for ever!” exclaimed another lady, in a great state of agitation.
“Perhaps till the war is over—such things are done,” remarked Mrs Armytage, who, having her husband and daughter with her, was more inclined to be contented with her lot than were most of the party.
With most of the captives, however, the days in that delightful climate passed pleasantly and rapidly by. Had Ronald Morton wished Edda to be placed in a position where her thoughts would most probably be occupied with him, he could scarcely have selected one more favourable for the purpose than that in which she now found herself.
What might have been the effect of the young French lieutenant’s devoted attention, it is impossible to say; but though he was present, the absent Morton ever stepped in to prevent him from making the slightest impression on her affections. The more she thought of Morton, the more vividly did she realise his noble qualities, his manly appearance; and thinking of him, she naturally taught herself to believe that, in some way or the other, she and her friends would be rescued from their present trying and anxious position. All the time they could not but feel that they were in the hands of enemies, who, though they behaved well at present, might at any moment change their conduct.
Both the French ship and the Indiaman had suffered considerably in the action; and since their arrival they had been undergoing repairs. These were now completed. The privateer’s men were also refreshed, and eager to go in search of fresh spoil.
With heavy hearts the late officers and passengers of the “Osterley” saw her under all sail, standing out of the bay. It appeared as if their home—the only means of escaping from their bondage—was leaving them. Many gave way to tears at the sight, and few looked on unmoved. Two days afterwards the corvette herself put to sea, both her captain and first lieutenant going in her. A small garrison was left in each of the forts, and the seamen remained in prison on board the dismasted prize, under a strong guard. As there were only a few small canoes on the beach, used for fishing, and none of the prisoners had arms of any description, there was very little chance of their attacking the garrison, or attempting to make their escape. An old French military officer, who acted as governor, was a very strict disciplinarian, and was continually going from fort to fort and inspecting his troops, so that neither he nor they were likely to be caught asleep. Indeed, it appeared that nothing was likely to occur to disturb the perfect tranquillity of the island.