“BRYDELL GOT THE THUMBED BIBLE AND READ TO HIM.”
“I don’t believe anybody in the world would call it wrong, Grubb.”
“Well, sir, I’m glad to hear you say that. It does seem hard if, after I’ve served twenty-four, goin’ on twenty-five years, I’m to die and be buried like a plain cit.[2] And I’d like you to ask the admiral as how if I couldn’t have the right sort of a funeral; you know we give it to old Capps. I ain’t set on the band particklar, but I want the flag on my coffin, and I want to be carried by my messmates. Now will you ask the admiral all about this?”
“Yes,” said Brydell in a trembling voice. Then holding Grubb up by main force he managed to get the uniform on him, the poor fellow helping feverishly and showing unexpected strength. When at last it was done Brydell got the thumbed Bible and read to him those promises of comfort to the dying.
“That’s it, that’s it, Mr. Brydell. Life’s a sort o’ puzzle to me. I don’t know where my boy got his bad ways from,—and I’m afraid he won’t get over ’em,—but if ever you have a chance, I want you to befriend him for the sake of poor old Grubb. Ha! ha! What a funny little shaver you were! I can see you now, sir, the day I grabbed you for tearing up the turf at the navy yard and the way you banged away at me with that little rifle.”
He was getting excited and beginning to toss about on his narrow bed.
“Don’t you think you had better keep quiet and try to go to sleep? The doctor will be here presently,” said Brydell, trying to restrain his tears.
“Well, yes, sir; good-night,” answered Grubb in a pleasant, natural voice.
In a little while the door opened softly and the doctor walked in. He went up to the bed. “He’s asleep, sir,” said Brydell in a whisper. The doctor bent over him and listened for his breathing.
“Yes, he is asleep,” he said after a while. “He will wake no more.”
* * * * * * * *
Brydell told the admiral about Grubb’s last wish.
“It shall be done, by George!” cried the admiral with tears in his eyes.
So poor Grubb, after having served twenty-four, going on twenty-five years, was buried in his uniform and taken covered with the flag to his last resting-place, and nobody asked a word about his discharge papers; the admiral arranged all that.
Behind the coffin of his humble friend walked Brydell, in full uniform; and as he kept the slow step of the funeral march solemnly played by the band, he thought to himself: “This man was a poor uneducated private, but I hope I shall be able to have as good a report to give the Great Captain.”
One night about seven years after this, the handsome fifty-four gun frigate, the Naiad, flagship of Admiral Beaumont’s squadron, and the sloops-of-war Vixen and Spitfire lay at anchor off a town on the South American coast.
The night was clear, although there was no moon, and the harbor lights shone steadily. The town itself was full of life and light, the governor’s castle blazed, and across the dark water floated the inspiring music of several military bands. A grand official reception in honor of the admiral and his officers was in progress.
Walking the deck of the Naiad was Brydell, now a handsome young ensign. He wore a look of sublime resignation. He had a wholesome appetite for receptions, but it being his watch that night he was obliged to remain on board. In vain had he made all sorts of advantageous offers of exchanging duty with the other young watch officers, of whom Maxwell, his old acquaintance of the Constellation, was one, and Cunliffe was another. Brydell had pleaded, cajoled, and stormed; the other fellows only laughed at him and went off to enjoy themselves.
“Just look over there at the Spitfire,” growled Brydell to himself—the Spitfire was commanded by Brydell’s father. “Dad hates these affairs and has let all the fellows go and stays at home and keeps ship himself. I wish our captain was an unsocial widower like dad.”
And as if to exasperate him further came a burst of music from the shore, borne fitfully over the water. Brydell glanced cynically up at the frigate’s lights which indicated by their arrangement that both admiral and captain were on shore, while the Spitfire, a short distance off, although looming up indistinctly, yet showed by the lanterns on her shadowy spars that her captain was aboard.
“However,” thought Brydell, slamming his cap fiercely on his head, “Admiral Beaumont is nearer right than my father, for he gets all the solid fun there is out of life. That’s the sort of admiral I mean to be.”
Brydell had enjoyed every moment of his cruise on the flagship. It was Admiral Beaumont’s last sea service before his retirement. They expected to sail for home within a few days, and when the admiral hauled down his flag it would be for good. He had been known as a great martinet, but for the last few weeks he had become rather more indulgent, especially in the matter of shore leave; and now, for the first time on the cruise, the ship had on her only one lieutenant, Verdery; one ensign, Brydell; two young naval cadets, and one assistant engineer.
As Brydell walked the deck some strange thoughts crossed his mind. They had that day taken on board from the Vixen a number of men whose time was up, and who were to be conveyed back to the United States, while the Vixen remained on the South Atlantic station.
And among them was a sailor rated on the ship’s books as “William Black, able seaman,” whom Brydell instantly recognized, in spite of a heavy full beard, as Esdaile. He had heard nothing of Grubb’s disgraced son in all those seven years, and had thought that an American man-of-war was the last place on earth to look for him. But he concluded that Esdaile had no doubt spent his little patrimony and had probably enlisted for a living, failing in other things.
Esdaile or Black had given no sign of recognition, and probably hoped that his altered name, his beard, and the changes of seven years would keep his identity unknown. The meeting had given Brydell a shock. He had never forgotten his promise to poor Grubb to befriend his son if possible, but he had had no means of doing so.
Then his thoughts turned to pleasanter things. He had received a letter from Minna Laurison that day, enclosing her photograph in her white commencement gown. She was a pretty girl of seventeen then, and eager to enter college, which she would do the next year.
Brydell had been back to the Laurison place several times since he had spent his year of farm work there, and Minna and he had continued fast friends. Minna, in her enthusiasm for the higher education, was loftily indifferent to receptions, never having been to one; and Brydell made her very indignant and amused himself very much by promising her that her head would no doubt be completely turned by the first she should go to.
“Never mind,” thought Brydell to himself as he walked up and down the deserted quarterdeck. “Some time or other I’ll go to a more gorgeous reception than this, and I’ll have a sweeter girl to take than any here—it will be Minna Laurison.”
The sea had been rough when the boats put off, and it grew rougher as the wind suddenly began to rise. Lieutenant Verdery, one of the oldest lieutenants, who was left in command of the ship, had gone forward for a few moments and presently came back. The wind began then to blow in earnest, and the big frigate was rocking like a cockle shell. The sky, too, became black and lowering in an inconceivably short time.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if we were in for a norther,” said Verdery. “We have had most uncommon good weather for this coast, and it’s about time for it to change. I shouldn’t be surprised if the admiral got wet coming off to-night.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t get off at all,” answered Brydell, pointing to the northwest.
A great mass of black clouds had collected as if by magic, and at that instant it was torn by a flash of forked green light that seemed to rend the heavens. Nothing could have been more sudden. Verdery dashed below to look at the glass and to see the engineer, for if the storm struck them, the safety of the ship and of the four hundred men she carried would depend upon the power of the engines to keep her off the giant rocks that fringed the shore.
Almost instantly the distant roar of the advancing tempest was heard, and in another moment the cabin orderly came running up excitedly to Brydell.
“If you please, sir,” he said, “Mr. Verdery was just going in the cabin to look at the glass when, one of the ports being loose, the wind blew it in and it struck Mr. Verdery right full in the forehead and knocked him insensible. The cabin steward run to him to do everything he could, but Mr. Verdery can’t give no orders, and the steward, as was a hospital steward once, says as how it was a pretty bad blow, and when Mr. Verdery comes to, he can’t give no orders ’cause both his eyes is bleeding and he can’t see.”
For one moment Brydell’s heart stood still. He was the next officer in rank to Verdery on board, the only others besides the assistant engineer being Manning and Buxton, both his juniors, and upon him would rest the command of the flagship and her company in a gale which promised to be a hurricane. In another moment, though, his courage rose.
“I can only do my best,” he thought, “and all my life and training has been steadily toward making me fit for such an emergency; and all I can do is to keep off shore and trust in God.”
At that very moment the advance guard of the storm struck them. As they were at anchor their canvas was secure, but their steam was low, and the wind was driving them straight on to destruction. The Naiad’s head had been pointed seaward, but as the tempest struck her it knocked the great frigate around as if it had been a paper ship, and her heavy anchors began to drag.
“Call the boatswain!” was Brydell’s first quick order, given calmly enough although his heart was thumping like a steam engine, and his next was, “Call the signal man!”
In another moment the sharp call of the whistle was heard to get up the anchor, and above the darkness the night signal went up to the other ships, “Up anchors and go to sea!”
Their only safety lay in seeking the open ocean. Manning and Buxton were on deck immediately, cool and composed. Crawford, the young engineer, was at his post working hard to get up steam, and in a few minutes the throb of the engines, slow but steady, was heard.
Brydell was at the wheel with Atkins, his old acquaintance of his cadet days, who was now a quartermaster and remarkably cool-headed and reliable. The helm was put hard aport, and in the teeth of the gale the ship was brought about by slow degrees.
A black and blinding rain had come along with thunder, lightning, and wind, and it was only during the flashes of lightning that the Vixen and the Spitfire could be seen. Both sloops-of-war had more powerful engines for their size and worked better than the Naiad. As soon as the signal was sent up, Brydell saw that both ships had come about and were heading seaward for safety. They made but slow progress, but still they were moving steadily and passed close to the Naiad on the port quarter. The Naiad was struggling with the fury of the storm and, although her head had been brought partly around, she lay in the trough of the sea, her laboring engines seemingly unable to move her against the force of the hurricane.
All her company were on deck except the force down in the engine rooms, and the men had begun to make silent preparation for the fight for their lives. Most of them had kicked off their shoes and stripped off their jackets, expecting every moment to be engulfed in the boiling sea.
Suddenly a flash of lightning that lasted nearly a minute and played over the whole heavens showed them the Spitfire, passing them easily though slowly, followed by the Vixen. Captain Brydell was standing on the bridge of the Spitfire, and saw at a glance that Brydell was in command. He at once surmised that Lieutenant Verdery was disabled.
As he forged ahead of the flagship, Captain Brydell took off his cap and waved it; and Brydell, knowing the spirit of fortitude that his father expected of him, waved his cap back in that one moment of ghastly light. Then, as the darkness descended, a cheer rang out above the howling of the wind; it was the men on the Naiad cheering their more fortunate comrades, while they themselves seemed doomed to destruction.
But at that moment the frigate, as if gathering herself for a mighty effort, moved forward a little, then stopped and staggered, and again she was moving ahead, although but slowly and unsteadily. Brydell managed to keep her head to the wind, and by degrees as the steam got up she made a little more headway.
In the blinding flashes of light they could see the two sloops-of-war for a while ahead of them, but when they had got a mile or two from shore not even the lightning gleam could pierce the whole of the awful darkness.
Brydell’s sensations as he stood by the wheel, occasionally leaving it to mount the bridge for a minute or two, could not be described. He was simply doing what any other officer could do or would have done, but no young officer in the world, having for his first command the safety of a flagship in a furious gale and the lives of four hundred souls, could feel anything but awed and solemn.
The quickness with which he had seized the situation and had signaled the course to pursue had inspired the men with confidence, and he was well supported by the coolness and steadiness of the young midshipmen. Presently, while walking forward to see how things were going, he was met by the cabin orderly, who in attempting to salute lost his cap in the shrieking wind.
“Mr. Verdery, sir, has come to,” he yelled in Brydell’s ear above the roaring of wind and water, “and the cabin steward is helpin’ him on deck; but he can’t see ’cause both his eyes were hurt by that ’ere port blowin’ out.”
In the half-darkness that the ship’s lights could only pierce like star points Brydell saw Verdery, with his eyes bandaged, being helped up the companionway. Brydell hurried to him.
“You have done admirably, Mr. Brydell,” was Verdery’s generous greeting, “and it shall be known to your credit. My first dread when I recovered my senses was that you had not grasped the situation, but when I asked I found out that you had put to sea as promptly as any officer could.”
“And I immediately signaled the other ships to go to sea also,” replied Brydell.
At that a sudden change came over Verdery’s pale and anxious face which was visible below the bandages. In the midst of the horrors and dangers of the hour he suddenly burst out laughing.
“Quite right you were,” said he, “but your father was in command of the Spitfire. I wonder how he would have felt if he had known it was you who ordered him to go outside?”
“He did know it, sir,” answered Brydell, smiling faintly. “They passed quite close to us, and a great flash of light came, and I saw my father as plainly as I see you now, and of course he saw I was in command. He waved his cap to me, and I waved mine back at him.”
Verdery, in spite of his dangerous hurt and helpless condition, remained on deck, but he gave no orders, nor did he find it necessary to make any suggestions, and his presence was only from the feeling that he wished to be found at his post, even if he could not do duty.
The fury of the storm continued, but the Naiad, with her engines revolving quickly, was better able to withstand it. They had now worked their way well out to sea and were in fairly good condition to weather the gale.
Brydell, although absorbed in trying to save the ship, had yet noticed Black, the seaman whom he knew to be Esdaile. There was little for the men to do, so they gathered forward on the fok’sle ready for any emergency.
Not so Black, who stood as far aft as discipline would allow, and apart from his mates. Just then the fury of the gale blew a part of the main staysail out of the bolt ropes, and the men sprang aloft to reef the ragged sail.
It was Black’s duty to go and he went, but Brydell, watching him in the half-light, saw that he shirked his work. He was the last man aloft, and he was so careless in what he was doing that the captain of the maintop, pushing him aside, secured the sail himself. Black dropped to the deck unconcernedly, close by Brydell.
“My man,” said Brydell sharply, “you must be smarter at your duty than that.”
Without a word Black rushed at Brydell and with one blow felled him to the deck; then, as if maddened, he jumped on him and began kicking him furiously. In an instant a dozen brawny arms had seized the insubordinate sailor and he was dragged below, fighting and resisting violently.
Neither the blow nor the kicks had seriously hurt Brydell. He was dazed by the suddenness of it, but in half a minute he was on his feet, none the worse but for a few bruises. The men, seeing his escape and knowing how much the safety of all on board depended on the young ensign, with one accord gave him three thundering cheers that echoed above the roaring of the storm.
All night the tempest raved, and when a ghastly dawn followed, the ship was still fighting for her life. Brydell did not once leave the deck, but toward noon the wind calmed, and although the sea still ran high the fury of the storm was over.
About two o’clock in the day the Spitfire was sighted. Brydell, knowing her superior speed, signaled: “Report us all right and we will be in some time to-day.”
The Spitfire signaled back: “Congratulations. Who commands?” The answer came: “Ensign Brydell. Verdery hurt, but not seriously.”
With this good report the Spitfire steamed away for the anchorage.
Just at sunset that night the anxious group of officers on the dock caught sight of the smoke from the Naiad’s funnels, and in a little while the great frigate came in sight. As she neared her anchorage in the sunset glow they could see the scarcity of officers on her decks; there were only Brydell, Manning, and Buxton; for, although Verdery was on deck, he was seated in a chair with his eyes bound up.
“Gentlemen,” said Admiral Beaumont to his officers as the ship was hove to and anchored in seamanlike style, “yonder shows what can be done by a lot of schoolboys who know their duty and can do it. The eldest of those young officers, young Brydell, is scarcely more than a boy, yet he acted with all the boldness and decision of a man, and has done as well as you or I or any of us could.”
And then a cheer went up from the crowds on the dock, the admiral leading and waving his cap enthusiastically. As soon as a boat could be set off Admiral Beaumont, the captain, and the officers went aboard.
When Brydell met them at the gangway he was far from being the trim and fresh-looking young fellow he had been twenty-four hours before. His eyes were heavy from want of sleep, and his face evidently needed washing. His uniform had got wet and dried on him without improving his appearance in the least. But Admiral Beaumont saw none of this; he only wrung Brydell’s hand without speaking. Brydell, with a flush rising in his wan face, said, smiling:—
“No accidents, admiral, except Mr. Verdery’s with his eyes, and the surgeon says that will not be serious, and one staysail torn, but I think it can be mended.”
Verdery, holding on to the surgeon’s arm, rose to shake hands with the admiral. “And I wish to tell you, sir,” he said loudly so everybody could hear him, “that I was disabled at the very beginning of the storm and never gave an order, and the safety of the ship and her company is due entirely to the coolness, ability, and courage of Mr. Brydell, who commanded through it all, and that of the other officers acting under his orders.”
Brydell turned crimson; he had only done his duty, and he felt ashamed to be made a hero of in that way.
“Any other officer, I am sure, would have done as well,” he managed to stammer. “Mr. Crawford, Mr. Manning, Mr. Buxton—all did equally well.”
“Very true,” said the admiral, smiling. “It is presumed that all officers do their duty intelligently in an emergency, but it is very great good fortune for a young officer to have a chance for distinction, and to be equal to the occasion, and I desire to express my very great satisfaction at your conduct.”
The other two young midshipmen and the engineer were also highly praised, nor was Verdery’s admirable example in remaining on deck forgotten, and the Naiad was indeed a happy ship. And in a little while a boat was seen pulling from the Spitfire, and in a few minutes Captain Brydell stepped aboard the Naiad.
Brydell was so worn out with fatigue and excitement that as soon as the captain resumed command he would have gone below at once except for the expectation of seeing his father, but he waited for that. Captain Brydell had meant to shake hands with him formally in the presence of so many officers and men, but before they knew it, almost, father and son were in each other’s arms. The admiral took Brydell by the shoulder.
“Young man,” said he, “do you go below and go to sleep. Captain Brydell and I want to hear all about the affair from someone who observed your gallant conduct, and will do it justice much more than you would—so go.”
Brydell needed no second order. He went below, and throwing himself, all dressed as he was, upon his bunk, in five minutes was sleeping like a log.
When Brydell waked it was near daylight next morning. His first thoughts were confused and then the recollection of Black’s blow and the terrible consequences to a sailor of striking an officer rushed to his mind. And he remembered poor Grubb, his early friend, and thought to himself: “If I can do anything for Esdaile, I will for Grubb’s sake.”
He was so troubled that he could sleep no more, and dressed and went on deck very early. As soon as the regular routine was gone through, the admiral sent for him into the cabin, where he asked an exact account of everything, especially in regard to Black’s attack on him.
Brydell at once told him that he felt convinced Black was Esdaile. This troubled Admiral Beaumont as it had troubled Brydell. He had sincerely respected poor Grubb, and the spectacle of his boy’s downfall was a painful one.
“I have issued an order this morning for a court-martial, and you will probably be the first witness called,” said he.
“Admiral,” said Brydell after a moment, “I would like your permission to see Black; I don’t care anything for him, but I promised my poor old friend to do what I could for his son, and I’d like to tell him that I haven’t any animosity toward him.”
The admiral gave his permission and Brydell went below to the dark place where Black was in irons. He was sitting up with a scowl on his face, and even in the dim light of the gruesome place Brydell saw that it was Esdaile.
“I’m sorry to see you here,” said he when the marine on guard had turned his back. “The more so that I believe your father was a man I loved very much.”
“I’m Esdaile, if that is what you mean,” answered the supposed Black coolly. “Of course I’ve gone to the dogs, driven to it by being driven out of my class. My money went a long time ago, and as I knew no way of making a living but by shipping before the mast, here I am.”
Brydell said not a word, but the thought of poor Grubb, his simple honesty, his mistaken indulgence to his boy, his enduring poverty, and privation all his life for this boy almost overcame him. Esdaile, watching Brydell’s face, saw he was deeply moved, and so touching is the sight of magnanimity and sympathy that few hearts can withstand it. Esdaile’s could not.
After a few moments he broke the painful pause, saying hesitatingly and with something like a sob between his words, “And when I saw you standing there last night, an officer, and with such a chance for distinction, I couldn’t help hating you; and when you spoke to me sharply about my duty, I went crazy, I believe, and struck you. Now I suppose I’ll have five or ten years in prison and after that I’ll take my choice between the workhouse and the jail.”
Brydell, like most courageous and upright men, had a tender heart, and the words of the man before him, scarcely a year older than himself, gave him a powerful shock.
“I’m sorry to hear you talk in that way,” he said after a moment; “but I want to tell you this—that although I shall have to tell exactly what happened before the court-martial, I can’t find in my heart the least feeling of revenge against poor old Grubb’s son, and when you are let out of prison, if you’ll come to me, I’ll do what I can for you, because I promised him when he was dying”—Brydell paused, and a slight change came over Esdaile’s face at this, but he said nothing and Brydell turned away.
The next day but one the court met, and it made short work with Esdaile. The testimony was complete, and the offence of striking an officer, under the circumstances, was almost as grave as if it were in time of war.
When Brydell was called upon for his evidence he gave it in a plain and straightforward way, and his examination brought out the fact that the alleged Black was the son of Grubb the marine, who had been known to one or two of the older officers in the court. Brydell could not but make the best showing he could for Esdaile, and something in Esdaile’s face seemed to indicate that a humanizing process was going on within him. It was indeed the turning point in his life. Before that he had not fully realized the wrongdoing of his whole life, but finding himself on trial for a charge that must send him to prison, gave him some awful moments of reflection.
Only a day or two were consumed in the trial. Every time that Brydell saw Esdaile led forward to his place to be tried for what was in military morals and discipline a terrible offence, it gave him a feeling of agony. He thought of his kind old friend, and the tears would come into his eyes in spite of himself. Esdaile was singularly cool and behaved civilly and respectfully to the court.
At last the verdict was given out—five years in prison. Everybody was surprised at its leniency. Esdaile when called up for sentence was asked if he had anything to say.
“Only this, if you please, gentlemen,” he answered calmly, in the tone and manner of an educated man. “The time was when Mr. Brydell and I were not so unequal in our standing. I made a mistake, committed a fault, if you will, in my early youth, that has made me what I am. I had not seen Mr. Brydell since; we had both of us been youths together. On the night of the storm I stood apart from my mates, watching him and envying him. Here, thought I, is he—an officer, suddenly finding himself in the position to reap the greatest credit, with the admiral, the captain, and all the officers in the squadron to witness it, while I, a sailor before the mast, forced to conceal my real name, poor and friendless, might have been where he is. And when I went aloft I scarcely knew what I was doing. When I came down on deck he spoke to me; I believe he acknowledged that he spoke impatiently, and some devil seemed to rise up in me, and I would have killed him if I could. But that has all passed. I have been tried fairly and impartially, and all I can ask is the mercy of the court.”
In the midst of a deep and breathless silence the verdict was read—five years in prison. Esdaile, still wearing his impassive look, neither groaned nor fell as men sometimes do in his awful circumstances; he only said after a painful pause of a few minutes:—
“I thank the court for its very moderate punishment, and I should like the favor of seeing Mr. Brydell.”
Brydell was hastily sent for. He had purposely kept out of the way; the sight of Esdaile’s misery was terrible to him. He was found though, and at once came in response to the summons.
“Mr. Brydell,” said Esdaile in the same composed and reasonable voice, “I have received my sentence and nothing I may say or do now can mitigate it. You will therefore think me sincere when I ask your pardon for my conduct, and tell you that if I live to get out of prison I will lead a different life. Won’t you shake hands with me, sir?”
Brydell, choking with emotion, held out his hand and, for the first time in the lives of the two young men, they met in mutual goodwill.
It was now time for the Naiad to sail for home, and Esdaile had to be taken back in her before he was consigned to prison. He was kept in solitary confinement and treated rigorously but not unkindly.
Brydell asked permission of the admiral to go to Esdaile’s cell every day for a few minutes. They would talk together, and Brydell began to see that Esdaile was indeed a changed man. These visits became the one bright spot in Esdaile’s hard life, and when at last the ship reached New York he felt that he had at least one friend in the world.
* * * * * * * *
One night some years after that Brydell, now one of the brightest lieutenants in the navy, sat in his pleasant quarters writing. His wife sat near him under a softly shaded lamp, reading. After a long silence, broken only by the scratching of Brydell’s pen, he turned to her and handed her a paper.
“Read that, Minna,” he said. “Esdaile, I believe, is a reformed man. These people will give him a place as bookkeeper, but as he told them frankly his past history, they write me that if I will go on Esdaile’s bond for five thousand dollars they will take him. I don’t believe there is the slightest danger; his fault, you know, was not connected with money; but I don’t think it right for any man to assume this sort of responsibility without his wife’s consent. So it rests with you whether I shall guarantee Esdaile or not.”
Minna took the letter and read it carefully. Then handing it back said softly: “Of course you must sign it. Didn’t you promise the poor marine when he was dying that you would befriend his boy?”
“It is you who are befriending him now,” answered Brydell. “Whenever a man is saved there is always a good woman who has a share in it. Between us we will redeem my promise to dear old Grubb. Here goes!” And Brydell signed the letter.
At sunset, on a wild January afternoon in 1776, the Diomede frigate passed Beaver-Tail light and entered the harbor of Newport. At that time the town was held by a large British fleet and land force.
The Diomede was a crack frigate and evidently had a crack crew from the beautiful precision with which she made a flying moor. It seemed as if in one minute her yards were squared, her sails furled, and her cable rushed out of the hawse hole in a blaze of sparks.
All this was done under the orders of the Diomede’s commander, Captain Forrester, who, being one of the best seamen in the British navy, liked to show his skill in anchoring before the assembled fleet. As soon as everything was made snug the captain went below and, seating himself at the cabin table, began to examine some papers by the light of the swinging lamp. He had a kindly, frank face, which was an index to a kindly, frank nature.
After reading and writing for a while he called to the orderly who stood at the cabin door.
“Direct the master-at-arms to bring me the man and the boy taken prisoners on the brig Betsey,” he said.
The orderly disappeared and a few minutes later the master-at-arms marched in with a remarkably handsome old sailor of about sixty and a boy of ten or twelve.
As soon as the old sailor saw the captain, he touched his glazed hat with prompt civility and in a way very suggestive of a naval man, although he wore the rough pea jacket of a merchant sailor.
Captain Forrester motioned to the master-at-arms to leave him alone with the two prisoners. As soon as the master-at-arms’ back was turned, the captain said to the old sailor: “Shut the door, Bell.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Bell in a tone and manner of deference clearly never learned in the merchant service.
“You see I know your name,” continued Captain Forrester, looking at him keenly.
“Yes, sir,” replied the old sailor slyly, with something suspiciously near a smile; “Bell ain’t a uncommon name, and I once knowed a midshipman named Forrester, sir; a mighty smart little reefer he was, too, sir.”
This time it was the captain’s turn to smile when he spoke.
“The man Bell that I knew was an American, but he had spent most of his life in His Majesty’s service—Jack Bell he was—captain of the mizzentop when I was midshipman on the Indomptable, and captain of the maintop when I was sailing master on the old Colossus.”
Jack Bell’s eyes gleamed as the captain spoke, and there was an answering gleam in the captain’s eyes. The tie that unites good shipmates is a strong one, no matter how great the difference in rank; and the old sailor’s delight at being recognized, although it might mean trouble for him, was evident.
The captain remembered that in his reefer days, when as a mere lad he was ordered to command a boat’s crew, that Jack Bell had always been orderly, respectful, and sober, and had helped him out of not a few scrapes, and had occasionally got him into some.
“The first time I ever went aloft,” said the captain, smiling involuntarily, “Jack Bell was in the mizzentop, and I recollect my feelings when I was ready to go down, and Jack held on to me, insisting I should pay my footing.”
“Ten shillings it were, sir,” chimed in Jack with a broad grin. “That’s what was axed reg’lar of the reefers on the old Indomptable, and many’s the shilling you’ve give me besides—I—I mean—you give that ’ere Jack Bell.”
Jack stopped, wholly confused.
“And that Jack Bell was a famous singer. Many a night when the ship was going along under easy sail with a fair wind, I have sat for hours listening to Jack’s sea songs, like ‘Tom Bowline,’ ‘When the Wind at Night Whistles o’er the Deep,’ and all those fine old catches. I never heard anybody sing them so well as he.”
“His voice is badly cracked now, sir,” said Jack solemnly, “but this ’ere little brat Dicky Stubbs can sing all them old songs—Jack Bell l’arned ’em to him. But, Jack, he remembers that ’ere little midshipman Forrester—and a gallant officer, sir, he turned out to be arterwards—when he was sailin’ master on the Colossus. Did you ever see, sir, such a ornhandy ship for tackin’ as the old Colossus? If Mr. Forrester hadn’t been a rale sailor, he’d ’a’ got hisself in trouble all the time with that old three-decker.”
Captain Forrester knew this was honest praise from an honest man, and it pleased him more than many fine words from fine people. After a moment Jack continued:—
“Axin’ your parding, sir, there’s a midshipman on this ’ere ship as is named Mr. Forrester. I never see a young gentleman so like that other midshipman Forrester as I knowed more ’n twenty-five year ago.”
“That’s my son—my only child—and a smart fellow, if I do say it myself. But I want to hear something about Jack Bell. The man I knew was a devoted American. I wonder what he did when the colonies rebelled against His Majesty?”
Jack twiddled his cap awkwardly for a moment, glanced around and saw the door was shut, and then began to speak. His manner was respectful and not without a rude and simple eloquence of his own.
“Cap’n Forrester, that man Jack Bell wanted for to do his duty. He had tooken the oath to King George when he ’listed in the navy and had served him stiddy for more ’n forty year. But that man, Cap’n Forrester, sir, was a American, and when that there Congress at Philadelphy said Ameriky was free and independent, Jack Bell, he were in a peck o’ trouble. There was his oath o’ allegiance to King George starin’ him in the face, and there were the heart and soul o’ him tellin’ him he were a villain to fight ag’in his own country. Well, sir, Bell, not bein’ a eddicated man, couldn’t think out easy what was right for him to do—’cause that man, sir, wanted for to do his duty. But he knowed if he had suspicioned King George was a-goin’ to declare war ag’in Ameriky, Bell, he’d ’a’ never tooken that oath; so at last he thought it was his duty to desert.”
The old sailor paused slightly at this word, and the officer and the former captain of the maintop looked each other squarely in the eye. The boy Dicky Stubbs, who had a bright glance, gazed first at one and then at the other, wondering what it all was about. After a little pause Jack Bell continued:—
“Well, sir, that man Bell had a considerable sum o’ prize money due him, but he thought as how he’d ruther not take it, as he was goin’ to take French leave; so he give that up willin’ and cheerful. And he knowed, too, if he were caught, he’d be strung up at the yardarm in spite of his havin’ served King George for more ’n forty years faithful; but he thought he couldn’t die but oncet for his country, and it didn’t matter much which way he went, if only he was a-doin’ of his duty. So one night at Gibralty, Jack Bell disappeared from his ship—’twas a ship o’ the line. Maybe the Don Spaniards garroted him; maybe he was tooken by pirates; maybe he got on a American merchant vessel that was took arterwards by the British, who thought she was a privateer. Anyhow Jack Bell did what he thought was right, and if he’s got to be hanged for it, well, that’s a easy, comfortable way o’ gittin’ out o’ the world, and Jack Bell ain’t got no apologies to make, excep’”—and here the old sailor’s voice deepened—“excep’ for not desertin’ sooner.”
All this time the officer and the sailor had looked steadily at each other. Captain Forrester knew perfectly well that the man before him was Jack Bell, and, if openly recognized, there would be but a short step for him from the fok’sle of the Diomede to the whip[3] at the yardarm. But Captain Forrester also believed Jack had acted from his conscience, and he did not believe in hanging a man for that. After a pause the captain spoke:—
“Sometimes it is as hard for an educated man as for an uneducated one to know on which side his duty lies; but it is safer to be on the side of mercy. If I should meet Bell, I should not feel obliged to know him.”
At this Jack stood upright at “attention” and saluted the captain. Each knew what that meant. It was Jack’s way of thanking the captain, who knew him perfectly well, for not betraying him.
“There is one thing, though, my conscience would require me to do if I should meet Bell,” continued Captain Forrester. “It is to land him here where he can be watched, that he can’t get away to enlist in the rebel navy, army, or marine corps. If King George can’t have his services, the rebels sha’n’t.”
Jack’s face was a study in its intense disappointment, but in a little while he seemed to submit to the inevitable.
“Well, sir,” he said, “Jack’s pretty old now—goin’ on to sixty—and he ain’t wuth his salt, excep’ as a foremast man on a man-o’-war. So neither King George nor Ameriky ain’t losin’ much. He’d ’a’ liked to jine the navy, but as for the marines, poor Jack Bell wouldn’t trust hisself with them murderin’ marines.”
“The Jack Bell I know always hated the marines,” said Captain Forrester with a smile.
“I reckon he do still,” calmly remarked Jack. “And as for fightin’ on dry land—why, sir, he’d git so tired runnin’ about he never could do no fightin’. Landsmen instid o’ fightin’ at close quarters fights over forty or fifty acres and does more walkin’ than fightin’, I’m thinkin’.”