CHAPTER X.

A DARK NIGHT'S WORK.

It was not until the 24th of July that the finale to this madcap expedition was attempted; viz., the landing and the facing of those fearful odds.

If Nelson had had but men to contend against, it would have been very different, but in their undertaking it was the forces of Nature he had to struggle against. There is no doubt about his daring, however. Nor did he underrate the difficulties he had to encounter.

It was with a feeling of sadness even that he sat down to write his letter to St. Vincent—the last he was ever to pen with his right hand.

"This night," he says, "humble as I am, I command the whole. I am destined to land under the batteries of the town, and to-morrow my head will probably be crowned with either laurel or cypress."

* * * *

The first plan of attack on Santa Cruz, which, as I have already stated, was spoiled by the discovery of the squadron, was this: The boats were to land at night, between the town and the fort on its north-east side, capture that fort, and afterwards demand from the governor that the town be given up.

But about midnight the three frigates, with the landing party on board, had got within three miles of the shore, when it came on to blow so hard that the forces were still a mile from the shore when day dawned, and they were seen. A consultation or council of war had then been held, and it was determined to land at all hazards, with the object of securing the heights. While the landing forces were so engaged, Nelson was to batter the fort for the purpose of distracting the attention of the garrison.

However, as bad luck would have it, a calm had followed the storm, and owing to this and the contrary current the admiral was unable to get near enough to rain his iron shower upon the fort. Meanwhile the heights were occupied and held by a force so great that it was deemed impossible to take them, and now we come to

THE DARK NIGHT'S WORK.

Well knowing how desperate the attack on Santa Cruz would in all probability prove, and how valuable were the services of our hero to his country, the admiral of the fleet, St. Vincent, had given orders that Nelson was not to land unless "his presence was absolutely necessary."

Nelson, with his usual headstrong tendencies, interpreted this to mean that he should do just as he chose.

So to-night he determined in his own person to lead the storming party.

The last thing that Nelson did was to send for his stepson, Josiah, into his cabin.

Josiah—Lieutenant Nisbet—was soon there.

"Why, lad, you are armed," said Nelson. "I sent for you to help me to burn your dear mother's letters."

"Is the affair then likely to be of so dangerous a nature, father?" said Josiah.

"It is, my boy. I have written to St. Vincent, and in that letter I recommended you to him and to our country. The Duke of Clarence, should I fall, will, I am convinced, take a lively interest in my stepson on his name being mentioned."

"But I am going too, father," said Nisbet, smiling but calm.

"Let me entreat of you, Josiah, to stay behind."

"No, no, dear sir."

"But, Josiah, I comm——"

"Hold, father, hold! Pray do not command me."

"I beg then. Think, Josiah, if we both fall, what would become of your poor mother? Besides, the care of the Theseus falls to you; stay, therefore, and take charge of the ship."

"Sir," said the young man respectfully, but with determination, "the ship may look after herself. I will go with you to-night if I never go again."

On board the Seahorse frigate the captains all met that night to dine with the admiral. Captain Fremantle, the commander of the vessel, had been lately married in the Mediterranean, and, his wife being on board, presided at the table. There was no lack of conversation at this little dinner party, no lack of liveliness even, though an acute observer might have noticed that now and then, on Nelson's part, it was almost forced. Hardly anyone touched the wine in the way it was usually touched, tasted, and handled in those old bacchanalian days, and at eleven o'clock the boats were called away, and all ready.

The night was very dark indeed, hardly a star shining, and closer in shore, where the rugged mountains frowned over the ocean, it was darker still.

There were, however, the glimmering lights of the town to guide them, and the black shapes of the great hills themselves.

All the boats that could be spared from the ships of war took part in this invasion, carrying altogether nearly one thousand bluejackets and marines.

It is almost half-past one now, and the invaders are rapidly nearing the shore. They can hear the thunder of the breakers that dash and foam on the stones and boulders, each receding wave adding to the dreary sound by sucking back with it the smaller stones. They are not far from the mole.

"I can see it, sir, I can see it!" exclaims Tom Bure, who is in Nelson's own boat, but forward in the bows.

The lad was right. Keen eyes can now descry the mole or pier, and a true British cheer rises from a thousand throats, and onwards dash the boats. But scarcely is the cheer echoed back from rock and hill ere bells are rung on shore, and a wild huzza tells the invaders that the Spaniards are prepared to give them a warm welcome.

And now the misfortunes begin; for most of the boats have missed the mole, and are stove among the boulders. However, Nelson, Fremantle, Bower, with five other boats, have found it; but how can they storm it against twice two hundred armed men?

Whate'er a man dares he can do!

Another shout, another huzza; the fight has commenced, and the Spaniards, beaten off the mole, take refuge in flight. But such a fire of guns as now lights up the darkness of this terrible night few have ever faced and lived. Musketry and grape from the citadel and from every window near.

Against this iron hail advance is impossible.

Our brave fellows attempt it over and over again, but fall dead or wounded on the pier.

Nisbet, his step-son—surely it was Providence who sent him hither to-night—is by his side in a moment. His first thought is that Nelson is killed.

The hero, however, gathers himself up, and shows that he has not lost presence of mind, for he clutches his sword with his left hand. That precious sword had been given him by Captain Suckling, and he will not part with it while life doth last.

Assisted by Tom Bure, whom even in his agony Nelson recognises, Nisbet lays the wounded hero in the bottom of the boat, and a hurried examination is made of the wound. With Tom's and Josiah's silk handkerchiefs a bandage is formed, the knot placed over the artery higher up the arm, and by means of this ready-made tourniquet the bleeding is stopped. A sailor of the name of Lovel tears his own shirt from his back, and forms a sling to support the wounded arm of his beloved admiral. Josiah seizes an oar.

"Shove off, lads," he cries; "let us get closer under the battery, and thus out of its fire."

With the help of Tom, and at his own request, Nelson is raised up in the boat. But nothing can he perceive except the surf lit up every moment by the awful flash of the guns, the heaving sea, and the distant cutter Fox.

Suddenly, high above the din of the contending foes, rises a wild shriek of dying agony from the crew of that very cutter, and before his eyes, by the fitful light of the blazing cannon, Nelson can perceive that she is struck—that she staggers, fills, and goes bodily down.

"Give way, my lads; now for the cutter," cries Nelson, the moment the shriek is heard. "Give way with a will!"

And on towards the drowning seamen rushes the boat. There is no thought of self with the hero at this moment. All his kindliness of heart, all his indomitable British courage, rise to the surface—pain and danger are forgotten quite. Who is there in all the wide world, friend or foe, who cannot admire and love a man like this?

Of all the 180 men the cutter had been bearing toward the shore only 83 are saved, and many of these were hauled into Nelson's own boat. Some are even caught by Nelson's unwounded arm.

Tom Bure does all he can, and helps many aboard; and seeing how energetically the lad worked—for he is now astern, and had been helping to support the admiral—Nelson finds opportunity to whisper these encouraging words: "Well done, my Norfolk lad; I will not forget you!"

All being done that can be done, no more heads above the water to clutch at or save, the boat is speedily rowed seawards beyond the reach of danger.

A ship now looms above them.

"What is she? What is she?" cries Nelson feebly, and even impatiently, for the loss of blood is telling on his nervous system.

"The Seahorse, sir," cried Tom Bure.

"Go on. Go on, Josiah, to the Theseus."

"She is farther away!" entreats his step-son. "Think, sir; your very life may be lost by our going on."

"Shove off, men, for the Theseus!" cries the hero himself. "Think you," he adds, as the men obey, "that I would present myself before Mrs. Fremantle in this pickle, and bringing her no news of her husband? I'd sooner suffer death."

The Theseus is made at last.

Nelson will not allow himself to be carried on board. "I have still my left arm remaining," he exclaims, "and my legs as well."

"And now," he cries, when he reaches the deck, "tell the surgeon to get his instruments out. I know I must lose my right arm, and the sooner it is off the better."

* * * * *

We must get back on shore now to see how it fared with the other poor fellows.

Like Admiral Nelson himself, Captain Fremantle was badly wounded in the right arm, but escaped to his ship, very much to the relief of his agonised wife, who was not long in finding out that all was lost.

Captain Bowen was among the slain, and this was a very great grief to Nelson, who loved him well. Another officer killed was Lieutenant Weatherhead, a man whom the hero also had much respect for and who, like our Merryweather, preferred being with Nelson even to taking a higher grade in another ship.

But Troubridge, the captain of the Culloden, and Weller, who commanded the Emerald, were among those who managed to secure a footing on shore with the crews of several other boats.

The boats themselves were instantly swamped, and dashed to pieces among the heavy boulders.

Their scaling-ladders were lost, but, although few in number, the cry was "Forward!"

The gallant little party dashed onwards to the great square of the town, expecting here to join Nelson, and those who had stormed the mole. Alas! they were, as we know, all scattered, dead, or lying wounded and exposed, on the blood-slippery pier.

Had Troubridge succeeded in saving the ladders, he would undoubtedly have scaled the citadel walls and silenced the guns.

Meanwhile, Captains Hood and Miller had secured a landing on the other side of the pier, and the two forlorn parties met, or, in other words, effected a junction. Previously to this a sergeant, with two of the towns' people, were sent to the citadel to summon it to surrender. He never came back.

These brave captains at daybreak reviewed their forces, and a bold little array they made, consisting of about 160 marines and pikemen, with 180 well-armed bluejackets.

They increased the amount of ammunition they were possessed of, by requisitioning that of a number of prisoners they had taken.

Wet and miserable, but with hope still aflame in those hearts of oak of theirs, they commenced to march on now towards the citadel. There was just a possibility, they thought, that it might be taken without scaling-ladders.

But lo! thousands of armed Spaniards were already seen advancing towards them, with hundreds of their allies the French, while every street was defended by one or more guns.

Troubridge, however, proved himself the hero of the hour. He instantly formed his plans, and bold they were in the extreme. One cannot help even smiling at the audacity—call it "cheek" if you please, reader—of this handful of British tars.

Troubridge then despatched Captain Samuel Hood with a flag of truce, towards the advancing enemy. His message was to the governor of the town, and was to the following effect:

"If," said Hood, "the Spaniards come but an inch nearer to the British, their commander, Troubridge, will immediately set fire to the town, which he is fully prepared to do. If he has to do so, it will be with the deepest regret, because he has not the slightest wish to injure any of the inhabitants.

"He is therefore prepared to treat on the following terms: Provided the British forces be allowed to re-embark, taking with them all their arms of every kind, and in their own boats, if saved; if not, in boats lent us by the town—Troubridge, in the name of Admiral Nelson, agrees not to molest the town, nor shall the squadron bombard it. The prisoners to be delivered up on both sides."

The commander smiled as he made reply.

"We think that instead of laying down the law to as, you should lay down your arms and consider yourselves prisoners of war."

"That," said Hood, "we never shall do."

"And suppose I refuse to treat, sir?"

"Then the destruction of the town and the utter annihilation of all your troops lies on your head. I give you five minutes to consider. If in that time your answer is not favourable, Troubridge will instantly proceed to fire the town and attack your soldiers at the point of the bayonet, and Nelson will bombard you from the sea."

"I do not think," said the governor, smiling once again, "that you would find yourselves very successful; but your Commander Troubridge is a gallant sailor, I shall therefore accede to your request."

This officer's name will be handed down to posterity as that of a brave and generous gentleman—a gentle maa—Don Juan Antonio Gutiarraz.

Ah! boys, those were the days of chivalry and romance, for the treaty being ratified, nothing could exceed the kindness of the governor and his men to our wet, shivering, and hungry troops. One hundred men were removed to hospital and carefully tended by the Spanish surgeons, a young man, Don Bernardo Collagen, even tearing his own shirt in pieces to make temporary bandages for wounded men who lay on the mole. The governor, in sending back our fellows to their ships, sent word at the same time, that while our squadron lay outside any of our people might land and purchase whatever they cared to eat or to drink.

Nelson, ill as he was, dictated a letter of thanks to this brave and kindly fellow, and sent them with presents. He also offered to carry the governor's letters and despatches to the Spanish government. This offer was accepted.

There is no doubt about one thing, however. Troubridge was in earnest when he threatened to fire the town and charge with the bayonet.

So the madcap expedition was at an end.

But how sadly it had ended; for in killed and wounded our loss was somewhat over 250 men.

Nelson's letters to the admiral of the fleet after his defeat were sorrowful in the extreme. But their tenour was no doubt influenced by the miserableness of his bodily condition and his sufferings, for owing to the bungling way the operation had been performed both the chief artery and the chief nerve were included together in the ligature, and the pain was in consequence of a most agonising character.

Here are one or two extracts from his letters to St. Vincent:

"I am now become a burden to my friends, and useless to my country; but by my last letter to you, you will perceive my anxiety for the promotion of my step-son Josiah Nisbet. When I leave your command I myself become dead to the world. I go hence and am no more seen. If from poor Bowen's loss you think it proper to oblige me I rest confident you will do it. The boy is under obligations to me, but he has repaid me by bringing me from the mole at Santa Cruz. I hope you will be able to give me a frigate to convey the remains of my carcass to England."

"The sooner," he says in another despatch, "I get away to a humble cottage the better. I shall thus make room for a sounder man to serve the state, for a left-handed admiral can scarcely be considered useful."

His step-son was promoted immediately, as he deserved to be.

Great though the admiral's sufferings were, he did not even forget our Tom Bure, who since the attack on Santa Cruz had been prostrated with illness. Probably his being promoted to a lieutenancy by Nelson himself went a far way towards restoring his health. Tom returned home in the same ship with Nelson.

Merryweather was wounded in a boat action soon after, and by his side fell Raventree, who was taken on board his ship and stretched for dead.

O'Grady, however, hadn't a deal of faith in a doctor's opinion, so he went soon after to the lee side of the gun, where the poor young officer lay covered up by the flag under which he had served so gallantly.

His wounds were bleeding afresh. His eyes were open, and he could talk.

O'Grady rushed pell-mell to the Irish surgeon's mate.

"Come here, you omadhaun," he shouted, "follow me, ye spalpeen av the world, to go and stretch a poor bhoy for dead that was never dead at all. Yes, sare, it's Raventree I mane."

"Not dead?"

"Och, no! The bhoy tells me so himself. He is a gentleman that wouldn't tell a lie for the loife av him. Come to him at onct, or I'll carry you."

* * * *

All the way home to England poor Nelson suffered agonies with his arm. He was afterwards most carefully nursed, however, by his wife, and the pain departed in a single night with the coming away of the ligature, which the bungling hands of that wretched surgeon had placed around the nerve.

Honours were heaped upon him.

Britain seldom forgets a true hero.

Nelson was happy now. He seems at this time to have had little wish to serve again.

There was true religious feeling ever dwelling around the heart of Nelson, and he did not forget to return thanks publicly, through the officiating clergyman, at St. George's Church, Hanover Square. There was the usual modesty about this, however, that marked all Nelson's actions, for from the pulpit his name was not even mentioned.

The following are the words of this thanksgiving, precisely as they were dictated by the hero, and precisely as they were delivered by the clergyman:

"An officer desires to return thanks to Almighty God for his perfect recovery from a severe wound, and also for the many mercies bestowed upon him."

CHAPTER XI.

A HAPPY HOME-COMING.

Four long years! yes, they did seem very long to Tom Bure, as he shipped on board a trading schooner that was to bear him over the sunlight sea, in bright September weather, to his home in Norfolk.

Four years! Why to look back appeared an eternity, so filled were they with wild adventures, with battles and sieges, and storms by sea and on land. We can only judge of distance on the ocean when ships, rocks, or islands are visible, and so can only judge of distance on the ocean of time by the events that stand out here and there, and seem to stud its surface.

"Four years!" he said to himself as he gazed over the taffrail at the rippling water, that went gurgling past the vessel's side as she headed north and away from the mouth of the Thames. "Four years! Why I was but a boy when I went to sea. Now I am a man, seventeen in a few months, and no mite at that. And a lieutenant! I wonder what Bertha will say. I do believe I used to make love to the child. Well, she is but a child yet, not more than twelve. But—— I wonder what she looks like. She'll hardly remember me. I do believe I've got her letter still."

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" said the skipper, who had now got his ship into a safe position. "Lovely weather I calls it for the season of the year. Just returned from the wars, haven't you?"

"Yes," said Tom, smiling.

"And haven't lost ne'er an arm nor a leg. Sad thing about poor Nelson, sir; but, lor' bless ye, he's a hero every inch! There isn't a man in Yarmouth that wouldn't die for him. Mind you, sir, Yarmouth's precious proud of him."

"As Yarmouth well may be, Mr. Auld."

"You've been to Norfolk afore, sir?"

"Why, I may say I belong there. My father died a poor man. His sword and his honour were about all he could call his own, but he belonged to a good family, I believe—the Bures."

"Bless my soul and old hull of a body!" cried the skipper. "You don't mean to say you're Tom Brundell, or Bure, that lived as a nipper wi' old Dan, and that we now hears so much talk about?"

"I'm all that stands for that youth," said Tom.

"Who would have thought it? Such a strapping, handsome fellow too. Why, tip us your nipper, my boy. Taking home Tom Bure am I? Why this is the happiest day in my life."

Tom shook hands right merrily, and the conversation continued.

There wasn't a man or woman apparently all over the north and east of Norfolk that Mr. Auld did not know the history of; and every question Tom asked was answered in a moment, and right heartily too.

He was unfeignedly glad to hear that Daddy Dan was well, and Ruth and his foster-mother. That the Ashleys were still afloat in the Fairy, and that "there wasn't a bit of difference in Yarmouth or in anybody or any place anywhere." These were Skipper Auld's own words.

"It seems to me," said Tom, "that all the change is in me alone."

"Ah! you're growing, young sir; but I daresay if one could see into your heart it isn't a deal of difference he'd see in that after all."

"Not a bit!" cried Tom. "That is in the right place, and I'll never forget dear Norfolk as long as my head is left above water."

"Bravo! Spoken like one o' Nelson's own!"

And at this point of the conversation Mr. Auld was constrained to spit in his palm and shake hands with Tom Bure once again.

* * * * *

Yarmouth at last! Not a bit of difference in the long, muddy river, nor in the quay alongside, nor in the shipping alongside.

Tom felt once more that the change was all in himself, but he was glad enough to get on shore nevertheless, for he meant to hire a trap, it being early morning, and drive straight away down to Daddy Dan's property, and give all hands a pleasant surprise.

He bade Mr. Auld good-bye, hoping they should meet again.

About half way up towards the spot where the town hall now stands he came abreast of a clean, taut, and trim-looking schooner. He started and stopped.

"I should know her," he thought. "Why, yes, I declare it's my first ship—the saucy Yarmouth Belle.

"Ship ahoy!" he shouted, in a voice so stentorian that a score of sailors and fishermen on the quay turned quickly round to look.

"Hullo!" cried a voice from on board; and up from the companion hatch popped the rough and warty old figure-head of Skipper Hughes himself.

Tom Bure went rushing over the gangway, stuck out his fist, seized the skipper's, and literally gaffed him on deck as if he'd been a forty-pound salmon.

Hughes didn't know Tom at first, but when he did he could hardly utter a word with excitement.

"Mate! mate!" he cried at last, "come up at once."

The mate—same old phizog—came up as quickly as if the ship had caught fire, and when about a hundred questions had been asked and answered to the satisfaction of all, "Mate," said Skipper Hughes, "on this auspicious occasion let us——"

"Hurrah!" cried the mate.

"Let us," continued the skipper most impressively—"let us——splice the main-brace."

* * * * *

There was a rat at the foot of that poplar tree without the slightest doubt.

Meg, Uncle Bob's collie, knew that. She had known it for a very long time. Indeed, the rat made little or no secret of the matter himself, for there was the door to his sub-arboreal residence close beneath the exposed portion of a root that Meg had often clawed and clawed at in vain. This was only the rascal's front door, however; he had several back doors, and he had an underground tunnel also, that led all the way to the old mare's stable.

That rat was a married rat too, and to Meg's certain knowledge had brought up a large family in there this last summer.

Meg was standing with her head turned a little on one side on this bright autumnal forenoon, and fancying she could almost see the rat grinning at her from the depths of his long, dark passage. She couldn't be sure though, for her eyes had grown more dim of late for some reason or another, which she didn't understand.

Her hearing was not so good as it used to be either. That was very curious!

"Meg, Meg, old girl!"

Her ears were in the habit of playing her strange tricks at times too.

"Meg!" For example, if she didn't know that Tom Bure had disappeared from off the earth ages and ages ago, just as her poor dear master had, she would fancy she heard his voice even now calling to her.

"Meg, you silly old girl!"

She turned her head at last.

Fancy? No, no, it was not fancy. Here was Tom himself, grown up from his puppyhood, as she had known all along he would, but Tom all the same—the eyes of Tom, the scent of Tom, the voice of Tom. She went for him straight with a rush and a run, and jumped upon his breast with a cry of joy that was half hysterical, and for all the world as if tears were choking her.

Then she must have a caper round and round the grassy lawn, where poor Bob used to lie so patiently in his cot.

Round and round.

Round and round.

Oh, if she had not capered and danced just then the excitement of her feelings might have given her a fit!

One more daft caper.

One more hysterical joy-bark. Then off over the bridge she flies, and in two minutes more comes back with Ruth.

Ruth had been making a cake, but those bare, plump, mealy arms of hers are thrown round her foster-brother's neck all the same, and she hugs him to her heart.

And——why the poor lassie is crying!

* * * * *

Altogether, this was indeed a happy home coming.

Neither Daddy Dan nor his wife were a bit changed. The garden was the same, the porch around the door and the roses and flowers, and even the jasmine that clung about Uncle Bob's wing.

Nothing altered.

Bob's bed yonder too, in Bob's own end of the house.

Aye, and the hooded crow's nest up in the poplar tree.

"And on fine days in summer," said Mrs. Brundell that evening as they all sat round the blazing hearth, with Meg, the collie, leaning her chin on Tom's knee, "on fine days in summer your Daddy will wheel out poor Bob's cot to its old place near to the shed where he works, though I tell him it is foolish."

Daddy Dan took his pipe from his lips and gazed upwards at the curling smoke with a strange moisture in his eye.

"Poor Bob," he said, "I like even yet to think the dear lad's near me."

Book III

CHAPTER I.

A GIPSY'S WARNING.

Wonders will never cease.

Tom Bure had found something at last that had changed during the time he had been at the wars.

That something was the dainty little person of Bertha Colmore.

She was not at the Hall when Tom first came to Daddy Dan's cottage, but in two week's time both she and her mother arrived. Tom had permitted one long day and night to elapse before he paid a visit. He did not like to appear too precipitate. Then, with Meg in the bows of the boat, just as in the dear days of yore, he went paddling away along the beautiful broads, and finally stood on the green mossy bank not far from the Hall.

Lady Colmore was delighted to see him.

So was lovely Bertha. Yes; she was a very lovely, though very young, girl; pretty enough to be a queen, Tom thought.

Bertha said she was delighted to see Tom. That is how Tom knew she was.

He wouldn't have known else.

She approached him, not with a glad rush, as of old; she gave him no kiss, but only a little gloved hand. She had just come in from a walk, and she said:

"How are you, Lieutenant Bure? Mamma and I have been so pleased to hear about you always, and from you also, and we are delighted to see you."

Tom was asked to stay for dinner. He needed little persuasion.

After that meal, as they were passing along through the hall, Lady Colmore stopped Tom near to a picture. It was the portrait of a soldier of a bygone time.

"Strange," she said, "but, my dear Mr. Bure, you get more like that picture every day; and, now I come to think of it, he was a Bure, or some such name. He is my son's great-grandfather by the father's side." She laughed as she added, "It is just possible, you know, that you are some distant relation of ours."

Tom found himself in the conservatory with Bertha some time after this.

"It is cooler here, Lieutenant Bure," she said.

Then Tom found his tongue, and to some purpose too.

"Look here, Bertha," he said. "I'm not going to stand any more lieutenanting. So there! If I can't be Tom to you, as I used to be, I'll join the first ship I can get, and go off to the wars and get shot."

"Oh, Tom!"

"There! It's out at last. I'm always going to be Tom to you and nothing else."

And thereupon, in good old sailor fashion, he took his little sweetheart in his arms, and gave her a kiss.

The ice was broken, and the "lieutenanting" all done with from that day and date.

* * * * *

One morning, about three months after this, the old postman brought a letter or two for Tom. He had been walking in the garden with his foster sister, but he sat down in the arbour to open them.

"Why, Ruth," he cried all at once, "who do you think is coming here? You would never guess."

"Oh! but I do guess," she replied, blushing like the autumn roses that were clustering overhead. "It is Mr. Merryweather. I dreamt about him last night."

"Poor Jack Merryweather!" continued Tom, reading to himself. "Poor Jack!"

"Tom," said Ruth, laying a hand on his arm, "he isn't ill, is he?"

She was very pale now.

"No, no, Ruth, he isn't ill; but he'll never serve his country more. He has lost a leg. Just fancy honest Jack Merryweather making a dot and carrying one. Ah, well, I may lose my own next. It is all the fortune of war, Ruth."

In a week's time Jack arrived. The same old Jack as ever in mind and manners; the want of both legs couldn't have changed Merryweather a single little bit.

With him came Raventree, looking somewhat sickly, but very happy to meet his old friend again.

What a vast cargo of news each one of these three sailors had got stowed away under hatches. Dan and his wife were exceedingly pleased to see Merryweather again, though with the real live lord, Raventree, they didn't know well what to do, nor at dinner did Ruth or her mother know how to address him. "My lord," and "your lordship" were words that they thought it was but the proper etiquette with which to lard every sentence. It amused Merryweather and Tom Bure also.

"Lord Raventree, may I help your lordship to another tatie?"

"My lord, your lordship hasn't got a drop o' gravy."

"Does your lordship like the bishop's nose?"

But Raventree settled the difficulty in fine sailor-like fashion before the dinner was half finished.

"Now, mother," he said, laughing, "and you, my pretty sister Ruth, there isn't going to be any more 'lording' at this table; just call me Raventree, as Tom and Jack do, or Mr. Raventree if you like. If you don't I shall call you the Lady Brundell, and my sissy here the Princess Ruth, which title, seeing how modest and beautiful she is, would suit her to perfection. Now let us be all equal, all fair, square, and above board. The charm of spending a night or two in a delightful old-fashioned cottage like this lies in imagining I live here always, that there are no wild wars, no battles, no bo's'n's pipe to call me at the dark hour of a stormy midnight, and only cock robin's song to greet me of a morning. Don't dispel my dream, mother. I was young and foolish once, now I'm older and wiser. Once I thought it was a fine thing to be a lord. I'd as lief be a miller now, I think, if I could always live in a place like this. Do you quite understand, mother?"

"Yes, dear."

"Ah! that's better. Now I have a mamma and a mother both. Mamma lives at Raventree Court, mother lives in a sweet little cottage on the edge of a broad."

"Raventree," said Merryweather, "you're what old O'Grady would call 'a broth of a boy.'"

"His heart's in the right place," said Dan. "It would be better for this country if we had more lords like this one."

"Why don't you enter Parliament?" said Jack.

"Mamma wants me to," said Raventree. "But it isn't good enough. No, I shall fight my way to the poop cabin of a 90-gun ship, hoist my pennant, chase the French from the seas, and then——."

"Then what?" said Jack Merryweather.

"Why, come back and marry Ruth, of course, and live happy ever after."

"That I'm sure you won't."

"Why, Jack, why?"

"Why? Because a man can't marry his sister."

"To be sure," cried Dan, laughing. "It's agin' scripture."

But the ice was broken now, and a right merry evening was spent. Although, it must be confessed, the younger folks did most of the talking, Dan was content to sit and listen and smoke.

Merryweather rose to go at last.

"No, no, no," cried Dan emphatically, "you don't leave here to-night. The missus will stow you both in one room. I shan't even apologise for it. You've been in a smaller before."

So the matter was ended in that way, and Raventree and Jack stayed at Dan's cottage, not one day, but several days. It was getting near Christmas time, however, and Raventree determined to take his two friends with him to Raventree Court, and to hire a carriage with postillions for the purpose.

First, though, they all paid a visit to the Ashleys. The old man was delighted to see his pupil again, and Merryweather too.

"My eyes! though," he said, "you do stump along lovely with that timber toe o' yours. Nobody 'ud know you hadn't been born with it."

Raventree was greatly delighted with the curious home of the Ashleys, with room above room, or rather cave above cave.

And with the Fairy too.

"Goin' round, I am," said Ashley, "day after to-morrow, to Yarmouth. Can't you young 'uns man the Fairy, and we'll leave the sons at home to fish?"

"Ah! we'll be delighted."

"Well, that's agreed. Help yourselves to more rum."

"I say, Ashley," said Merryweather, "pay any duty on this?"

"Never a penny," cried Ashley, laughing; "and what's more, I don't intend."

* * * * * * *

The next visit of the trio was to the Hall. Lady Colmore was her own proud self now, and, much to Raventree's annoyance, paid all her court to him—to the lord—leaving his friends, figuratively speaking, out in the dark and the cold.

But Raventree hoisted his topsails after a time, and stood right away on the other tack. He overhauled the saucy craft Bertha, and made violent love to her, greatly to her mother's delight.

"One never knows what may happen, dear," she told Bertha that evening. "Why, his lordship might come back some future day and marry you!"

"Please, mother," said Bertha, "I'd rather marry Tom."

"Tom was dragged up in a cottage, Bertha. You should study dignity, my love. There, go to bed, child; you are too young yet. Just let your mother think for you."

Our three friends had a delightful trip Yarmouth and back. Of course, they boarded the Belle, and it goes without saying that the skipper made his usual speech, beginning: "On this auspicious occasion," and ending with a strong recommendation to his mate to "splice the main-brace."

* * * * * * *

There were no railway trams in those days, be it remembered, but there were good coaches and horses; and just a week before Christmas, Raventree, with Tom and Jack, left Dan's cottage in an open carriage with four horses and a pair of postillions.

There was just one matter in which young Raventree delighted to assert his dignity, and that was the matter of equipage. It was certainly not for pride, however, albeit, he used to say, "What's the use of being a lord at all if you can't keep it up on shore?"

Raventree, being a sailor, loved horses, that was all, and he would have them too. Expense? That didn't signify, for once in a way. His mamma would pay. She loved her sailor boy. So right merrily they drove off from the cottage, Dan and Ruth standing on the rustic wee bridge, and waving their handkerchiefs to them as long as they were in sight, and Meg barking her hardest.

Those three sailors were all as happy as sailors could be. Two were young, and if Merryweather was not precisely a spring duck, his heart was as fresh as a boy's.

The last thing Dan and Ruth saw, before the bend of the road and the trees hid the carriage from view, was Jack waving aloft his wooden leg, with a handkerchief bent on to the top of it. He had unshipped it for the purpose.

Ninety miles they had to go, but the weather was fine and the roads were hard. The horses too were as good as gold, and the postillions smart, and small enough to be coxswains for an Oxford or Cambridge boat race.

They made the first five-and-twenty miles of their journey that day in fine style, and slept that night at a cosy little old-fashioned inn, in front of a market square, where they astonished the landlord by the sumptuousness of the dinner they ordered.

The landlord was a bit put about too, for he was quite unused to such an order at this season of the year.

But his wife came to his assistance. G——, Esq., of M—— Hall, was from home, but his cook wasn't. So a polite request brought her down to the inn, with the result that the dinner was a repast fit to place before a Russian Emperor.

Just about sunset, and before they sat down to table, Raventree and Tom were crossing the village green—a huge great park of a place, with a pump in the centre—when a couple of swarthy-looking, but by no means ill-favoured, gipsy men came up to them. One was carrying a dark-eyed little child.

"Good gentlemen," this man said, "it is near Christmas time, and we haven't much in the caravan yonder except five small children. We can't eat those."

He smiled pleasantly as he held out his hand.

Something yellow crossed his palm, and with blessings sounding in their ears our sailors marched on, and soon forgot all about it, for the time being.

* * * * * * *

"By-the-by," said Tom that evening to Merryweather, "did you ever hear anything more of that fellow Jones whom you thrashed so prettily on the sands?"

"Well," was the reply, "he volunteered, as we call it, and I took him in the ship with me as I had promised."

"And he showed his gratitude?"

"Yes; he nearly brained me with a capstan bar at Gibraltar, then jumped into the sea, and the men said he was sucked down in an eddy. I don't want any more gratitude like that."

In due time the carriage arrived safely at Raventree Court, which of course was all en gala. Tom thought that Lady Raventree was the most perfect lady he had ever seen, and his friend's sisters after the first few hours seemed positively his own. Never in all his life had he felt more completely at ease than at Raventree Court, and time appeared to fly on golden wings, so that three whole weeks went by like one long delightful dream.

No wonder that when good-byes were said at last, both Tom and Jack Merryweather had willingly promised that they would on no account make strangers of themselves.

The postillions were sorry to go. They had had a real good time of it, as the Yankees express it, and departed with tears in their eyes.

Crack went the whips, and away rolled the carriage, heading east once more—east with a little bit of south in it.

Thirty miles made their first day's journey, for the horses were as fresh as salmon, and although snow had fallen to some extent the roads were clear and hard, so the whole expedition, as Raventree called it, was as merry and happy as the traditional sand-boy.

Next day's run, however, would only be twenty miles, so an early start was not thought necessary. The sky looked thick and hazy, with the horizon closer aboard than Merryweather liked it.

"There is snow in the air," the landlord said; "but you can do it easily, gentlemen, if you push on. Good luck to you, and the safest of journeys."

A little way past the hostelry where they had stayed all night was a steep hill, that led upwards through a clump of trees. Raventree permitted the horses to slacken speed here, for the ground was somewhat slippery, and an accident would have been awkward.

As it was the animals had almost to claw their way uphill, stumbling often, but keeping on their feet.

By the time they reached the top they were well pumped, and Raventree called a halt. The steam rose from the animals' hides in the frosty air in clouds, while their sides heaved like billows.

"I think we can go on now, my lord," said the leading postillion at last. "'T won't do, your lordship, to let 'em get too cold."

"Right then," said Merryweather.

At that moment a man sprang from behind the trees, and placing a piece of rather dirty-looking paper in Raventree's hand, disappeared again as suddenly as he had come.

"Why, what is the meaning of this?" said Raventree, laughing, as he handed the note to Merryweather.

"Well," said the latter, "it's a warning from a friend, there is no doubt about that."

"Look well to your priming as you pass through Blackmuir woods."

"That's plain enough," said Raventree. "Why, how jolly! We're going to have a real adventure with footpads."

When they pulled up at the top of the next hill to breathe the horses once again—for the snow was now whirling round their heads in gusts that were almost suffocating—

"Boys," said Merryweather to the postillions, "where is Blackmuir wood?"

"Twelve mile far'er on, sir."

"Are your pistols loaded?"

"That they be, sir. We knows Blackmuir well."

Crack went the whips again, and it was evident the boys were not afraid of anything.

CHAPTER II.

THE FIGHT ON BLACKMUIR MARSH.

"It is the very captain of the thieves."—TENNYSON.

The sun was setting by the time the carriage reached Blackmuir; going down in a sky of great rolling snow-laden clouds, with here and there a rift of blue between; going down with a yellow, angry glare, that boded no good for the travellers. A more dreary waste than this wind-swept moor, on such a wintry afternoon, it would be difficult to conceive. Lonesome and lovely it would be in summer time, when the linnets sang among the patches of golden furze, when the partridges called to each other among the grass, and water birds made love in the reedy ponds, while the blackbird's mellow music, and the wild lilts of the mavis, made the echoes ring in copse and woodland. But the pools were now frozen, the bushes were but ghostly shapes, the spruce trees and pines pointed their snow-laden branches groundwards and looked like sheeted spectres; and when the carriage pulled up for a short time, before plunging down into a wooded ravine, there was no sound to be heard save the moan of the wintry wind.

The forest they soon entered was fully two miles in extent—tall beech trees, oaks, elms, and pines, but with here and there an ocean of undergrowth that would afford excellent ambush for a footpad.

Slowly the carriage descended the hill. There was a bridge at the bottom that crossed a rushing stream, then the hill began to ascend again. But here the trees almost overhung the road.

No one spoke. The postillions kept their heads constantly on the move. Tom was kneeling on the front seat of the carriage, which was an open one, and peeping into the semi-darkness of the wood. Raventree and Merryweather sat behind, each grasping a pistol, while several more lay handy.

"If we are attacked," said Merryweather quietly, "take good aim, lads, each at the man nearest to him. Keep steady, and we'll beat the rascals off if there be fifty——."

Crack, crack, crack. Smoke and flame came from a thicket near. The leading off horse stumbled and fell, and the postillion came tumbling to the ground with him.

"Hold your fire," cried Merryweather.

There was a shout from the wood, and six armed and masked men suddenly sprang into view.

"Give them fits now," roared Merryweather.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, went a volley, and two men fell. The others rushed in.

"Hold and deliver!" cried one. "If you fire again you are dead men."

At that moment the other postillion fell, and horses and men were now so mixed up that to fire at the ruffians was impossible, with any degree of safety to the postillions or horses.

Four huge pistols were levelled at the carriage, and its occupants seemed marked.

"You haven't a show for it, Merryweather," cried one of the footpads.

But the fellow's voice, instead of cowing the sailors, appeared to act like the match that fires a mine.

"By Jove! I know you, Jones," cried Merryweather.

He kicked the door of the carriage open as he spoke, and sprang like a deer into the road. The wooden-leg seemed an advantage rather than a drawback.

Pistols cracked again, swords clashed, and horses plunged. There were shouts, oaths, and screams. Then high above the din of battle a wild huzza from the woods, and two new combatants, armed with cudgels, rushed upon the stage of battle.

Were they footpads? No; but gipsies, and right sturdily they laid around them. In two minutes more the battle was decided, every robber hors de combat or pleading for mercy, and Tom and Raventree shaking hands with the two swarthy Romany Ryes they had been kind to three weeks before.

Merryweather had torn the mask from the face of one of the robbers with no very gentle hand, and there stood revealed the villainous face of David Jones, the Welsh smuggler.

Merryweather was angry, virtuously, but very angry. He clenched his fist, and for a moment it seemed he was about to dash it at the scoundrel's head; but he restrained himself.

"This is the second time you've attempted my life, Jones," he said, "you cowardly rascal."

"The third'll come," was the cool reply, "if I have the chance."

"That you never shall. You'll hang as high as Haman."

"We'll see," said the fellow. "If I'm hanged my ghost shall haunt you."

The prisoners were now secured—death indeed had secured two—and the postillions once more mounted, much afraid still, but all intact. One horse had been killed, and this was the only fatality on the side of the sailors, although the carriage was riddled with bullets.

The gipsy caravan was not far away, and this was requisitioned next day, and a start made from the nearest inn, for Yarmouth; the prisoners being shut up in the van, and safely guarded by the sturdy gipsies.

At Yarmouth three prisoners were handed over to the authorities. No, not four. Jones was found dying in the caravan the evening before they reached town. He had loosened one hand, found a small knife, and therewith done the deed that soon hurried him into the presence of Him who made him.

* * * *

Every man Jack in those dashing days, who could wave sword or cutlass or trail a pike, was needed by the service, so it was unlikely that Raventree or Tom would be allowed to rest at home.

Nelson himself, minus an arm, minus an eye, had once more joined the service, and was on duty at this time in the Mediterranean.

So Raventree and Tom Bure, who had both passed their examinations with flying colours, and were therefore full-blown lieutenants, were appointed to a ship then fitting out for sea at Portsmouth.

Nor was Merryweather entirely overlooked. He was overhauled, however, by a body of bold ship's doctors. They agreed that, although a wooden leg would be awkward on board a ship, it would not incapacitate its wearer from certain kinds of duty on shore. So Merryweather found himself in command of as brave and reckless a lot of blue-jackets as ever reefed a topsail. They were nominally called coast-guardsmen, but no one knew better than the townspeople of Portsmouth, that their principal mission was connected with the pressgang.

By no means a very elevating employment was this, nor was it one that Merryweather cared for, only it had to be done by some one. The king needed men for his navy, and Merryweather would have carried a musket for his majesty had he been asked to do so.

In this service—coast-guard—O'Grady, formerly of the ships in which our heroes had fought, was Merryweather's best man, and between the two of them they managed to obtain quite a large number of "volunteers."

They did not confine their operations to any one town or place, however. They would be in Portsmouth one week, probably, and in London or Dover the next, Mr. Merryweather thinking it best not to be too well known in any particular port.

Now the Highflyer, in which Tom and Raventree were to take passage to the Levant, in order to join the fleet under the Earl of St. Vincent—Sir John Jervis—was short of men, and what more natural than that Merryweather and O'Grady should undertake to supply them? Both officers knew every corner and alley of old Portsmouth, and what was better still, they knew every crimp therein.

A crimp was a mean kind of a reptile that lived in clover upon the earnings of poor Jack in those days, and that still exists in various forms about the London docks. But the genus is nowadays threatened with extinction, for sailors have grown wiser, and instead of going to low lodging-houses they very frequently are to be found at those very excellent institutions called Sailors' Homes.

When Raventree and Tom, delighted to be together. joined the Highflyer, they found everything in the direst confusion. The ship had only just been got out of dock, and the "woodpeckers," as the carpenters were called, were still on board fitting up, the tapping of their hammers resounding fore and aft all day long.

The Highflyer was an old-fashioned gun brig, with strong masts and lofty; capable of good speed under a heavy press of canvas, but at the same time a craft that needed a sailor's eye and a sailor's head to watch and manœuvre, in dirty weather at all events. Just the sort of vessel that, if taken aback suddenly in a squall, was as likely as not to go down stern foremost in five minutes time or far less.

The captain of the Highflyer was a much older man than either of our young heroes. His rank, however, was not post, although he gave himself all the airs of an admiral of the fleet.

Tom and his friend came off in the gig which had been sent for them, and McTough, the captain, condescended to meet them as they came over the side. He smiled as he returned their salute, or rather he made a grimace that was meant for a smile.

A little short dark man he was, with a Highland accent, and a manner that was intended to denote that on his own quarter-deck there was no one in all the wide world to compare with McTough, and that it would only be waste of time to attempt to get to windward of him.

"We're all in blessed confusion at present," he said, "and sure we'll be so too for days and days. Not half my men either; but Merryweather will soon find them. Ah! he's the right sort. I was a middy with him. Come below, gentlemen, to my cabin. It's the only place in the ship that isn't thoroughly thro'-other."

"Steward!" he cried, when they had seated themselves, "bring the wine."

It was Scotch wine that the steward brought—in other words, Highland whisky.

The captain half-filled a tumbler and tossed it off, and seemed a little astonished that Tom and Raventree did not tackle the stuff in the same off-hand way. The captain's first glass was drunk "neat," that is, without water; the second was diluted, and this one was evidently meant only to trifle with as he kept talking, for before they rose to go on deck he helped himself to another, saying, "Pooh! no, it spoils the flavour," as Raventree passed the water across to him.

That evening Merryweather and O'Grady came off, and all four dined in the captain's cabin. There was plenty here to eat and drink, and the wines were of the best vintage; but nothing would Captain McTough touch except the wine of his native land.

"I'll have fifteen as handsome volunteers for you," said Merryweather in the course of the evening, "as ever kept a watch."

"It's me myself that is pleased to hear it," said McTough, ignoring the rules of grammar in his excitement. "And they'll come of their own free will, of course?"

Merryweather smiled.

"Better have your surgeon on board," he said, "for I expect there'll be a broken head or two to see to among the lot."

"And let me just tell you this, Merryweather, I like the men best that come on board with broken heads. It shows they're no hinkumsneevies."*

* Hinkumsneevie—a mean, worthless fellow, with no "go" in him.

"Ah! well, McTough, I like to lay them aboard as easily as possible."

"You always were soft-hearted, Merryweather."

"And, Tom, you'll come with us and see the fun. I know Raventree will."

"Well," said Tom, "I'd just like to know how it is done. But it seems rather hard on the poor sailors."

"For king and country," said Merryweather.

"If that's a toast," said McTough, "we'll drink it."

And he did. McTough never missed an opportunity of drinking a toast.

And soon after he went to sleep in his arm-chair, which was always McTough's way of intimating to his guests that they might leave when they liked.

"Dine with me to-morrow evening at the 'Fountain,' then," said Merryweather, as he shook hands with his friends and went over the side.

"A different kind of craft this from the old Agamemnon," said Tom when the boat had shoved off.

"I don't like her, Tom."

"And I don't like McTough."

"Well, suppose we get clear of her as soon as we can."

"Agreed."

CHAPTER III.

"VOLUNTEERS" FOR THE NAVY.—THE BURNING OF THE
"HIGHFLYER."

"I'm a freeman—a nabob—a king on his throne,
For I've chattels and goods and strong beer of my own."

The "gentleman" who wished to see Commander Merryweather, just as he and his two friends had finished dinner at the "Fountain" next evening, was not a person one would have taken to very readily.

A tall, fair-haired, bland, inscrutable kind of man, with a shifty eye. He bowed most obsequiously to Merryweather, then looked doubtingly at Tom and Raventree, who were both in mufti.

"Friends," said Merryweather curtly.

"Officers, I presume," said Bloggs, for that was his sweetly-savoured name, and he smiled and bowed again.

"Enough of that, Bloggs," said Merryweather. "Help yourself to some wine, and let's get to business. Are your men all ready to volunteer?"

"To a man, Capting Merryweather."

"There now; no names, please. Where are they now, and what doing?"

"They're all on the carouse. Tossing cans, and singing, at No. 9 back-room."

"How many in all?"

"Over twenty; nearer thirty. I've refused them more liquor."

"Fool!"

"See here, Capting—I means mister. I knows my biz, you knows yours. Supposing I'd been too liberal wi' the grog, they'd have suspected. There's some among 'em suspects now. I knows what I'm about."

"All right. And they're in the back hall?"

"Ay, and a fiddler's just gone in."

"Keep them dancing and gay, Bloggs, till after midnight. We'll be there. Yes, empty the bottle if you like."

Bloggs had a double allowance of wine, bowed, smiled, and retired.

"Awful villain!" said Merryweather. "Those poor fellows we're going to have, if we can, have most of them been there a week, and hardly ever seen daylight."

"Does he keep them in the dark?" asked Tom innocently.

"You don't understand," said Merryweather, laughing. "He keeps them drunk that he may cheat them, and they hardly know whether it is night or day. If we didn't have them, Bloggs would bundle them, still drunk, on board some merchantman, five, six, or even ten at a time, receive their advance, and go smiling on shore again, to allure more to his dismal den. The ships that take them lie in the harbour for a day or two, and as soon as the poor seamen are sober it is up jib and off."

The back hall of No. 9 was considered the safest crimp's crib in all Portsmouth. It lay fifty yards off the street. You entered by a narrow alley, then found yourself in a kind of garden, at the bottom of which stood the hall, or dancing howff. Here poor Jack drank, danced, ate, and slept, awaking only to eat, dance, and drink again.

Let us look in here to-night. It will be some time before our eyes are quite used to the clouds of tobacco smoke; then we can dimly see Jack and Sally, or Poll, seated at tables round the room, smoking, singing, and yarning. There is a screechy old fiddle at quite the other end of the big room, and half-a-dozen couples on the floor footing it lightly on the fantastic toe, or the heavy heel.

The hubbub and din is fearful, for more than one song is going on at the same time, though if you listen you can just make out the words of the singer at the nearest table. His eyes sparkle with mirth as he trolls out the following ditty:

"Wounds! here's such a coil! I'm none of your poor
Petty varlets, who flatter and cringe, and all that;
I'm a freeman, a nabob, a king on his throne,
For I've chattels and goods, and strong beer of my own.
Besides, 't is a rule, that good fellows ne'er fail,
To let everything wait but the generous ale.

            Chorus—Besides——"

That chorus was never sung.

"Long live the King," shouted Merryweather, entering by the only door, and apparently all alone.

"Now, good fellows, it's all up; so who's going to fight the French for St. George and merrie England?"

There was just one moment of stillness after this bold, brief speech, then pandemonium seemed suddenly let loose. A shower of bottles, jugs, and cans came floating towards Merryweather, but he ducked and retired; women screamed, tables were overthrown, and amidst oaths and maledictions a rush was made for the door.

A few were knocked down and handcuffed as they came, but the rush was too great, even for the force of bluejackets.

The fight in the garden was a fearful one. The moon shone as brightly as day, and in less than a minute showed at least a dozen couples struggling on the ground.

It was not the object of the seamen to stop to fight, however, but to escape.

The second rush was through the alley, but here they encountered Merryweather's rear-guard. So well, indeed, had he disposed of his men, that out of the thirty odd merchant seafarers only about seven escaped.

There was no happier man next morning than Captain McTough, as he reviewed his volunteers—twenty-two in all, and scarcely one among them who had not a cut face or blood-matted hair.

And now a strange thing occurred. The very man who last evening had been singing about being

"A freeman, a nabob, a king on his throne,"

stepped out of the ranks and saluted the captain.

"Men," he said, "I'm a volunteer."

"And we're all volunteers, Bill," they shouted.

Then he turned to Merryweather.

"It doesn't matter a deal," he said, "now we're here, whether we volunteer or not. But, sir, I wish you were going with us, timber toe and all; for, faith! you fought finely, and I love a brave man."

Merryweather shook the man by the hand, and the volunteers cheered him as he went over the side. But I may as well state here as anywhere else that Bill Williams—and a bold Welshman he was—turned out one of the best men in the ship. And if a man could be good under such a tyrant as Commander McTough he could be good anywhere.

The brig had not got half-way over the Bay of Biscay before this officer showed the cloven hoof. He had no less than two men down from aloft in the same forenoon, stripped and flogged—four round dozen each, sans ceremonie.

His language was also, to say the very least, far from polite.

McTough was a sample of the naval officers who are despots on their own quarterdecks, and who, even in those days, I am happy to say were comparatively rare.

Tom Bure was sick of the fellow in four or five days' time, and could hardly be civil to him.

Raventree ventured to take a man's part, and received such a torrent of invective that he told McTough, there where he stood, that he was a scoundrel and a villain.