"I tell you what, Tom; if we once get to Morlaix, all chance is over,"
said he. "We must either get out of this church this very night, or we
must make up our minds to remain in prison Heaven knows how long."

"Have we any chance?"

"I'll tell you more about that in a little while."

The door of the church now opened, and the people brought in the straw
for the beds, which they threw all in a heap in the center of the
church, and the doors were again closed.

"I see daylight now," said Bramble. "Tom, find the mate and boatswain,
and bring them here to me quickly."

I did so, and Bramble asked them whether they were inclined to make an
attempt to get clear.

They replied that they would join us in anything--they did not care what
it was, and against any odds.

"Well, then," said Bramble, "my idea is this. You see there are but
twelve old soldiers to guard us; for you may be certain that, before
long, all the privateer's men will be as drunk as owls--that's but
natural; not that I think of coming to any fight with them, but I make
the observation because, if we get out, we shall have little to fear
afterward. Now, you see, I asked for the straw because the idea came in
my head that it might be useful. You see, what I propose is, as there is
plenty of wood in this part of the church, that we should wait till
about three hours after dark--that is, until ten or eleven o'clock--and
then set fire to the church. They must come and let us out, you know; at
least I take it for granted that they will before the roof comes down.
If they don't, we must force the doors ourselves--I've looked at
them--and until we do there is no fear of suffocating, for there are no
panes to the windows. So, after all, it will only be a bonfire, without
danger to anybody."

"Well, but what shall we gain by it?" said the mate. "We shall be walked
out with the other prisoners, and how shall we then escape?"

"There it is: we will not be walked out with the other prisoners; and,
in the confusion and hurry of taking them away to one place or another,
they will not be likely to miss us. We will all go up this narrow tower,
where we may remain, till the church falls in, with perfect safety; and
then, when all is quiet again, and the people have left the spot, we
will make for the pier, get one of the fishing boats and be off. How do
you like the idea?"

We all agreed that the plan was very feasible, and would attempt it.

"Well, then, we must remain quiet for the present; all you have to do is
to fetch as much straw this way as you can by degrees: I expect they
will bring us something to eat before long."

We removed a large portion of the straw to the chancel; in half an hour
afterward the doors were opened and rations of bread were brought in.
What still more assisted our plans was, that the captain of the
privateer at the same time, very good-naturedly, brought a demijohn of
brandy, which he gave to Bramble.

Bramble thanked him through the interpreter, and told him that he would
get well drunk that night.

"Yes, drive away care, captain says," replied the interpreter.

Once more the doors were closed, and we had no chance of further
interruption.

[Illustration: JACK A PRISONER.--Marryat, Vol X., p. 349.]

By Bramble's direction, the mate, assisted by me and the boatswain,
cast loose the remaining bundles of straw and shook them down as beds
for the prisoners at the end of the church nearest to the door; and as
soon as they had eaten their bread, Bramble gave them all a portion of
the brandy, advising them to turn in soon, as we were to march very
early the next morning. We remained with them at first, having taken our
seats on the straw as if we also intended to repose. At last it became
dusk, and then dark; the prisoners settled themselves to sleep; we left
them and joined Bramble. Having arranged our straw so as to secure
ignition, and leaving the mate and boatswain down below, Bramble and I,
now that there was no chance of our being seen by the sentinels,
ascended the tower. It commanded a view of the town and harbor. We
looked down upon the main street--all was mirth and revelry; fiddling
and dancing and singing were to be heard from more than one house; women
in the street laughing, and now and then running and screaming when
pursued by the men.

"This is all right," observed Bramble; "in an hour or two you'll see how
quiet everything will be; but I shall not let them all go to bed before
I set fire, for there may be some difficulty in waking them. I don't see
that there's any lights down at the pier, where the vessels lie."

We stayed up there till about eleven o'clock, Bramble watching the
lights and sounds; and when he considered that they had sufficiently
decreased, he said, "Now we'll try it, Tom, and may success attend us!"

We descended and found the mate and boatswain anxiously waiting for us.
Bramble struck a light with his flint, and we carried it to the screen
where we had piled the straw under the seats and against the panels.

"Now then, messmates," said Bramble, "as long as the others sleep the
better; but if they waken in the confusion, bring here all the straw you
can collect, for we must not fail for want of fuel."

But of this there was no chance, for the wood of the screen and benches
was so dry that it was alight immediately. For ten minutes the other
prisoners and the guard outside did not appear to be aware of what was
going on; but at last the church was so filled with smoke that they were
roused up. Still the principal smoke was in that portion of the church
where we were; at the other end they were not much inconvenienced, as it
found vent by the windows. What the invalids were about outside I do not
know, but they did not perceive it; probably they had left their guard
to go and carouse. At all events the flames had climbed up from the
screen and had caught a portion of the roof before the Frenchmen knew
that the church was on fire; the smoke was now exchanged for a bright
clear flame, which had already found its way through the slating, and
the prisoners were halloaing and screaming as loud as they could. We
went to the part of the church where the others were, and joined the
outcry. The voices of the people outside were now to be heard, for men
and women had been summoned by the cry of the church being on fire:
still there was no danger until the roof fell in, and that would not be
the case for perhaps an hour, although it was now burning furiously, and
the sparks and cinders were borne away to leeward by the breeze. The
screams of the prisoners now became dreadful: frightened out of their
wits, they fully expected to be burned alive; still the door was not
opened, although we heard a loud consultation of many voices without.

"Well," said Bramble, "I hope they really don't mean to let us burn
here; at all events, if they do, I can save the poor devils, for
there's room enough on the stairs of the tower for twice as many. At all
events we must hold on till the last moment."

As he said this we heard them outside put the key in the door, and
immediately Bramble, the boatswain, mate, and I retreated from the crowd
and gained the other portion of the church, which was most in flames. As
the door opened we hastened to the tower door, and closing it after us,
gained the staircase near the top, where we remained quiet; there was no
want of smoke there, but still we could breathe pretty freely, as the
fire from the roof was borne down by the wind from us and toward the
people, who were at the front of the church. How they disposed of the
other prisoners we do not know, as we dared not show ourselves; but in
about half an hour the whole of the roof fell down upon the pavement,
and nothing but the bare walls of the church were left standing.

After the roof fell in the light from the flames was so small that we
ventured to the top of the tower to look out. There were still many
people standing about, but the major part of them were gone. As the fire
sank down so did the people go away; at last there was no one to be
seen: we remained more than half an hour watching; light after light
disappeared, and all was quiet as death.

"Now's our time," said Bramble, "but still we must be cautious; let us
follow one another at about ten yards apart: if we meet with any one,
pretend to be reeling as if drunk, and they may think we are
privateer's-men not yet gone to bed."

[Illustration: THE ESCAPE.--Marryat, Vol. X., p. 353.]

We followed him down the stairs, gained the church, and trod over the
still burning embers; as soon as we were clear of the walls we turned to
the right in our way down to the harbor, keeping in the gloom as much as
possible. We arrived safely at the pier, for there was not a soul
stirring; all our fear was that we should find some one keeping watch on
board of the vessels, which we must pass after we had possession of one
of the fishing-boats, as they laid inside of them. But fortune favored
us every way: the boat we selected had her sails bent, and was not
fastened with a chain; we were, therefore, in the stream in a moment;
the tide was also running out strong, and we passed the vessels without
having occasion to use our oars. The battery at the entrance of the
harbor was also without its usual sentry, for the men had been called up
to guard the prisoners. In half an hour we were clear of the harbor, and
steering with a fine breeze for the English coast; and when daylight
broke the French land was but just perceptible.

"Well," said Bramble, "praised be Heaven for all things. I expected to
have lost my precious liberty for years, and I have only lost two
shirts, one pair of trousers, and three pair of worsted stockings."

We had nothing to eat or drink, but that we cared little for, as the
wind was fair. About ten o'clock that night we landed at Cawsand Bay
near Plymouth, where we sat down to a hearty supper; and when we went to
bed, I did not forget to thank Providence for my unexpected escape.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

     Another Escape, more fortunate than the one recorded in the
     preceding Chapter.

From the time that I had passed my examination, and worked as a pilot on
my own account, until the period of our escape, which I have narrated in
the preceding chapter, I had continued to live in the cottage with
Bramble, without contributing any share to the expenses. I had at first
proposed it, but Bramble would not listen to any such arrangement; he
considered me, he said, as his son, and who knew, he added, but that the
cottage would be mine after he was gone. The fact was that Bramble
ardently wished that Bessy and I should be united. He continually hinted
at it, joked with Bessy about me; and I believe that, in consequence,
Bessy's feelings toward me had taken the same bent. She was prepared for
the issue; the regard naturally felt for me from her long intimacy, now
that the indulgence of it was so openly sanctioned by him whom she
considered as her father, was not checked on her part; indeed, there was
no doubt but that it had ripened into love. She showed it in every
little way that her maiden modesty did not interfere with, and old
Bramble would at times throw out such strong hints of our eventual union
as to make me feel very uncomfortable. They neither of them had any idea
of my heart having been pre-engaged, and the strangeness of my manner
was ascribed by Bramble to my feelings toward Bessy. Bessy, however, was
not so easily deceived; my conduct toward her appeared, to say the best
of it, very inconsistent. So often had I had opportunities, especially
when I was at home and Bramble was away, of speaking on the subject, and
so often had these opportunities been neglected, that it filled her mind
with doubt and anxiety. After having accepted my addresses at first,
Janet had once or twice written to me; lately, however, she had not
written herself--all her messages were through Virginia's letters, or,
perhaps, she would add a little postscript. Had letters arrived for me
in any other handwriting than that of Virginia, Bessy, after her
suspicions were roused, might have easily guessed the truth; but it was
the absence of any clew to guide her as to the state of my feelings
which so much puzzled her. She was fully convinced that my heart was not
hers, but she had no reason to suppose that it was in the possession of
another. Thus did my passion for Janet Wilson in every way prove to me a
source of anxiety. I knew that it was my duty to undeceive Bramble and
Bessy, yet the task was too painful, and I could not make up my mind to
make them unhappy. I felt that I had no right to remain under Bramble's
roof and live at his expense, and, at the same time, I could not find an
opportunity of telling him what my feelings and wishes were, the very
mention of which would at once explain to him that the desire of his old
age would never be accomplished. I often accused myself of ingratitude,
and felt as if it were my duty to make every sacrifice to one who had
been so kind a protector; but I was bound by vows to Janet Wilson, and
how was it possible that I could retract?

Virginia's letters were not satisfactory: at first she told me how much
she had been annoyed by the attentions of the young nobleman, and how
very indelicate my mother had been in her conduct; eventually she
informed me that she had been insulted by him, and that, upon
complaining to my mother, the latter had, much to her surprise and
indignation, not only laughed at his extreme forwardness, but pointed
out to Virginia a line of conduct by which he might be entrapped into
marriage; that her refusal to accede to such unworthy devices had
created a serious breach between her mother and herself. She stated the
young man to be extremely silly and weak, and that my mother had gained
great influence over him; and were it not that the presence of the
tutor, who seldom quitted the house, had proved a check, that there was
little doubt but, as far as the young man was concerned, the
disproportionate match would be readily acceded to; that the only person
she had ventured to consult was her dear friend Mrs. St. Felix, who had
promised her, if the persecution did not cease, that she would make Mr.
Sommerville the tutor aware of what was going on. Virginia described the
latter as an amiable modest young man, who did all in his power to
instruct his pupil, but who was treated with anything but deference in
return.

Relative to Janet she said little, except that she generally called
there every day to make inquiries after me: once or twice she did say
that it was a pity that I was not able to come oftener to Greenwich, as
Janet was not very steady; indeed, considering how young she was,
without a mother, and so little controlled by her father, it was not to
be wondered at.

Such was the state of affairs when I made up my mind that I would speak
to Bramble about my paying my share of the expenses, which I thought
would open his eyes to the real state of my feeling toward Bessy. I did
so; I pointed out to him that I was now earning money fast, and that I
considered it but fair that I should support myself, and not put him to
further expense; that perhaps it would be better that I should take a
house for myself, as I must give a great deal of trouble to Bessy and
Mrs. Maddox.

"Well, Tom," said Bramble, "you've been at me about this before, and I
believe it's a proper feeling, after all. It certainly does seem to me
to be a matter of little consequence, as things stand; however, I can't
consent to your leaving us. You have been with me ever since you were a
lad, and I should feel like a fish out of water if I were to be without
you or Bessy; so pay just what you please--I'll take it since you wish
it--and there's an end of the matter."

This was not the end to which I was driving; but Bramble's eyes would
not be opened, and I could not help it. He had never directly spoken to
me about a union with Bessy, and therefore it was impossible for me to
say any more. Bramble, however, did not fail to communicate what I had
said to her; and one evening when we were standing on the shingle beach,
she said to me, "So Emerson has been convicted for smuggling, and
sentenced beyond the seas."

"I am sorry for it," replied I.

"His house is to be let now, Tom; would it not suit you? for my father
told me that you wished to leave us."

"Why should I live upon you when I am able to support myself?"

"Certainly not. If it were not that I could not bear to see father
miserable, I think it would be better if you did take Emerson's house;
but it would vex him, poor good man."

"But not you, Bessy; is it that you mean?"

"Perhaps it is. Tell me yourself, Tom, would it not be better?"

I made no reply.

"Well," replied Bessy, "think of me as you please; I will speak now,
Tom. I am not considering you, Tom, nor am I thinking of myself; I am
only induced so to do on account of my father. We have been brought up
together as children, Tom, and, as children, we were great friends, and,
I believe, sincerely attached to each other. I believe it to be very
true that those who are brought up together as brothers and sisters do
not change that affection for any other more serious in after life. It
is therefore not our faults if we cannot feel as, you must know, Tom, my
father wishes we should. Am I not right?"

"You are, I believe, Bessy," replied I.

"My father, therefore, is deceiving himself with the hopes of what never
can take place, but I know him even better than you do, Tom; it is the
object of his daily thoughts--his only wish before he sinks into his
grave. I cannot bear to undeceive him; no more can you, if I have truly
judged your feelings."

"You have judged right, Bessy."

"The very circumstance of our knowing his wishes, the hints which he
throws out, his joking on the subject, have been a source of annoyance
to both of us; and not only a source of annoyance, Tom, it has estranged
us--we no longer feel that affection which we should feel for each
other, that kindness as between brother and sister which might exist; on
the contrary, not being exactly aware of each other's feelings, we
avoid each other, and fearful that the least kindness might be
misconstrued, we do not really treat each as we otherwise would; in
fact, it has destroyed our mutual confidence. Is it not so?"

"It is, I acknowledge, but too true, Bessy, and I thank you for having
entered into this explanation--"

"Which, as I said before," continued Bessy, "I should not have done
except for the sake of my father; but now that I have done so" (and here
Bessy's voice became tremulous), "let us consult at once how we shall
act so as to secure his happiness, and that in future we may return to
the former confidence and regard which should exist between us as
brother and sister."

"Point out how this is to be done, Bessy, and I will cheerfully enter
into your wishes."

"We must laugh when he laughs, Tom, even if not inclined; we must gain
time--that is very easy. I may refuse as long as he lives--you may put
it off; and then, Tom, circumstances may help us--who knows what even a
day may bring forth?"

"Very true," replied I, "there's only one thing--"

"What is that?"

"Suppose I was to marry?"

"Then," replied Bessy, in a voice half choked, as she turned away, "my
father would be very unhappy."

I looked round to reply, but she had gone into the cottage. This
conversation gave me great satisfaction. I felt convinced that if I had
at one time formed the idea that Bessy was attached to me, I had been
mistaken, and I was as indifferent to her as she was to me. I was just
as anxious as she was not to vex Bramble, and equally glad that
confidence was restored between us. Alas! I must have been very blind
not to have perceived what was the true state of her feelings, but I
did not, and after some reflection I determined that I would make her a
confidante of my passion for Janet Wilson; and then I walked to the
post-office to see if there were any letters from Virginia. There was a
letter for me--a double one. As soon as I had paid the money, I opened
it; it was very closely written, and evidently Virginia had much to
communicate to me. I forgot for the moment Bessy and Bramble, thought
only of Janet, and put the letter to my lips as I walked away, that I
might go home and read it. I hurried past Bessy, who was in the parlor,
and went up the stairs into my bedroom, where I took my letter out of my
pocket and commenced it.

     "15th April.

"MY DEAR TOM--I shall begin a letter to you now, and fill it up as a
sort of a diary; as it is the best plan, I think, to narrate
circumstances as they actually take place. It is unpleasant to say
anything against my mother, the more so as I believe that she thinks she
has been doing right, and has my interest sincerely at heart: she
appears to consider that an alliance with people of rank cannot be
purchased too dear, and that every attempt is justifiable to secure for
me such an advantage. Little does she know me. If she forgets, I never
shall, that I am the daughter of a Greenwich pensioner, and never would
ally myself with those whose relations would look upon me as a disgrace
to their family. No, Tom; even if I were so heedless as to allow my
affections to be enthralled, I would at any sacrifice refuse to enter
into a family much beyond my condition. I have thought of this often,
and I confess that I am sometimes unhappy. I have been brought up and
educated above my situation in life, and I do not think I ever could
marry a person who was not more refined and educated than those who are
really and truly my equals, But as, at the same time, I never will enter
into a family who might look down upon my parentage, I presume your
little Virginia must remain unmarried. If so, I am content--I have no
wish to alter my present condition. I am happy and respected; and with
the exception of the trifling annoyances which we all must expect and
must submit to, I have no reason to be dissatisfied; on the contrary, I
have to be grateful for many blessings, and I trust that I am so. My
poor mother is the cause of all my present vexations. She tells me that
my beauty, as she is partially pleased to call it, is sufficient for my
aspiring to the hand of a duke, and that it will be my own fault if I do
not make a high connection. Every night she has been overwhelming me
with alternate reproaches and entreaties to permit the attentions of the
gay gentleman who is now lodging at our house, stating that it was on my
account only that he took the apartments, and that, if I play my cards
well, he will be caught in his own trap, which, I presume, is as much as
to say that he came here with different intentions, and finding that he
cannot succeed, will secure his intended prize or victim by marriage
rather than not obtain her at all. Very flattering, truly! and this is
the man to whom my mother would induce me to confide my future
happiness--a man who, independent of his want of probity, is a fool into
the bargain. But the persecution on his part and on that of my mother
now becomes so annoying that I have requested Mrs. St. Felix to speak to
Mr. Sommerville the tutor, who, if he does his duty--and I have every
reason to believe that he will do so--will take some measures to remove
his pupil from our house.

"17th. Mrs. St. Felix and Mr. Sommerville have had a meeting. He
generally walks out every afternoon in the park; and Mrs. St. Felix and
he have already been introduced. She therefore went out and met him, and
after exchanging a few words she introduced the subject, stating that
she did so at my request. Mr. Sommerville, although he had not been
blind, had had no idea that things had proceeded so far; and he promised
Mrs. St. Felix that he would soon put an end to the persecution, or
remove him from our house. Janet has been here to-day, and I told her
what had passed; she very much approved of the steps which I had taken.
I must, however, say that latterly she has not appeared to take that
interest about you that she used to do, and I fear that your continual
absence is injurious to your prospects. She is very young and very
giddy, Tom. I wish she had been older, as, even when she is your wife,
she will require much looking after, and a firm hand to settle her down
into what a married woman in my opinion ought to be. Mr. Sommerville has
requested me to favor him with a few minutes' conversation; and as I
cannot do it in our house, for my mother never leaves me a minute to
myself, I told him that I should be at Mrs. St. Felix's this afternoon,
and he could speak to me then. He knows that I have no secrets from Mrs.
St. Felix; and although it is not pleasant to resort to such means,
still there can be no impropriety in my hearing what he has to tell me
in her presence.

"I have seen Mr. Sommerville--he thanked me very much for having
communicated, through Mrs. St. Felix, my mother's plot against his
protege, and paid me many compliments upon my behavior, which were quite
unnecessary. He told me that he had spoken to his pupil, who had most
positively denied his having any such intention, and stated that he was
merely amusing himself, and he had pledged himself not to take the least
notice of me for the future. 'I am well aware,' said he, 'that what he
has stated is not correct; he has not deceived me by his assertions; and
were it not that I feel confidence in you, Miss Virginia,' continued he,
'I would write to his father that he might be immediately removed. I
hardly need say that should anything of this kind take place, I should
be most severely blamed. It is not the first time that I have been
compelled to interfere, for my pupil is of a very susceptible
disposition, and has fancied himself in love with at least five young
people since he has been under my charge. In this instance,' continued
he, making me a bow, 'he has some extenuation to offer. Will you oblige
me by informing me if he adheres to his promise? or do you wish that I
should speak to your mother?'

"Mrs. St. Felix replied that it would be unnecessary; indeed, that if
Lord ---- left the house I should only be subject to fresh persecution.
Mr. Sommerville, at her request, stayed to drink tea, and is certainly a
very pleasant, well-informed, amiable young man.

"23d. I have received no molestation since the explanation with Mr.
Sommerville, except from my mother, who accuses me of having affronted
Lord ----; and although I deny it, she asserts that he never could have
so changed his conduct toward both of us if I had not so done. I have
not seen Janet this week--I cannot imagine what has become of her.

"24th. You may imagine my joy, my dear Tom. Mr. Sommerville has received
a letter, stating that his lordship is to go down to his father's seat
in the country, as he will be of age in a month, and he is to make
acquaintance with the tenants; there are to be great rejoicings there
upon his coming of age. I am sure no one can rejoice more than I shall
when he leaves, which is to be next Saturday. I am also very glad to say
that the Marquess has presented Mr. Sommerville with a valuable living,
now that he gives up his tutorship. I really think he will do justice to
his profession, for I have seen more of him lately, and esteem him very
much.

"27th. They are gone, much to my mother's mortification and to my
delight; and now, as I have written so much about myself, I shall leave
this letter open till I see Janet, that I may tell you something about
her, otherwise I know my letter will not be interesting to you.

"31st. My dear Tom, you must prepare yourself for painful intelligence.

"Janet has disappeared. She left her father's house last night after the
family had retired, but no one knows where. She left a few lines on her
table, stating that they would hear from her soon. Poor Mr. Wilson was
here to-day--he is half distracted--and the whole town is full of the
scandal. Mrs. St. Felix told me this morning that she has discovered
that within the last week she has been seen walking on the London Road
with Lord ----. Is it possible?

"May 2d. It is all true--Mrs. St. Felix has a letter from Mr.
Sommerville, stating that Janet was brought up to town and married to
Lord ---- two days ago. It appears that from the time that I repulsed
his attentions he fixed them upon Janet; that she encouraged him, and
used to meet him every night, as Mrs. St. Felix was informed. Mr.
Sommerville has seen his father, and fully exculpated himself; but the
Marquess declares, as his son is a minor, that the marriage shall not be
binding. How it will end Heaven only knows; but she is much to be
pitied. This will account for her not coming to me as usual. Now, Tom, I
do not suppose you will pay attention to me at present, but from what I
knew of Janet, and which her conduct has fully proved, she was not
worthy to be your wife, and could not have contributed to your
happiness. I pity you from my heart, as I know what you will feel; but
still I congratulate you, and eventually you will congratulate yourself
at your fortunate escape.

"I will say no more at present, except that I am, and ever will be,

"Your truly attached sister,

"VIRGINIA."

I had courage to finish the letter, and then it dropped from my hands. I
was bewildered, stupefied, maddened. As my sister said, I did indeed
feel. Was it possible? Janet, who had--mercy on me! I threw myself on
the bed, and there I remained till the next morning in a state most
pitiable.

It is only those who have been deceived in their first attachment who
can appreciate my agony of feeling. For the first few hours I hated the
whole world, and, had then the means been at hand, should in all
probability have hastened into another; but gradually my excitement
abated; I found relief in tears of sorrow and indignation. I arose at
daylight the next morning, worn out with contending feelings, heavy and
prostrated in mind. I went out--stood on the beach, the keen breeze
cooled my fevered cheek. For hours I leaned motionless upon an anchor,
all hope of future happiness abandoned forever.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

     Which is all about Love--Bramble confides to me all his
     Acquaintance with the tender Passion.

To conceal from Bramble or Bessy the state of mind to which I was
reduced was impossible. I was in a condition of prostration against
which I could not rally; and I believe that there never was a person who
had been disappointed in his first love who did not feel as I did--that
is, if he really loved with a sincere, pure, and holy feeling; for I do
not refer to the fancied attachments of youth, which may be said to be
like the mere flaws of wind which precede the steady gale. I could not,
for several days, trust myself to speak; I sat silent and brooding over
the words, the looks, the smiles, the scenes which had promised me a
store of future happiness--such as would probably have been the case, as
far as we can be happy in this world, had I fixed my affections upon a
true and honest, instead of a fickle and vain, woman; had I built my
house upon a rock, instead of one upon the sand--which, as pointed out
by the Scriptures, had been washed away, and had disappeared forever!
Bramble and Bessy in vain attempted to gain from me the cause of my
dejection; I believe that they had many conversations upon it when I was
absent, but whatever may have been their surmises, they treated me with
every kindness and consideration. About a week after I had received the
letter, Bramble said to me, "Come, Tom, we have had an easterly wind for
ten days now, they are going off in a galley to-morrow--suppose we go
too; it's no use staying here moping and doing nothing. You've been out
of sorts lately, and it will do you good." I thought so too, and
consented; but the other pilots were not ready, and our departure was
deferred till the day after. Bramble had acquainted me in the morning
with this delay; I was annoyed at it, for I was restless and wished for
change. My bundle had been prepared; I had passed the best part of the
night in writing to Virginia, and was, as people very often are when
under such oppressed feelings, in anything but a good humor at being
obliged to remain another day at Deal. I had walked out to the beach
after we had breakfasted, and had remained there some time. Bramble had
gone out in the direction of the post-office, and I asked him to inquire
if there was a letter for me, for I thought it very likely that Virginia
might have written to me again. I had remained for an hour on the beach,
when I recollected that my knife required to be sharpened, and I walked
round the cottage to the back yard, where there was a small grindstone.
I had not put my knife to it when I heard Bramble come in and say to
Bessy:

"Well, girl, I've found it all out; for, you see, I thought old Anderson
might know something about it, or, if he did not, he could inquire--and
I've got the whole story. Here's Anderson's letter. I thought there must
be something of that sort."

Here there was a pause, as if Bessy was reading the letter.

"Only to think--she's run away with a young lord," said Bramble.

"So it seems," replied Bessy. "I'm sorry for poor Tom, for he feels it
severely."

"I'm not sorry," rejoined Bramble; "she wasn't deserving of him; and,
Bessy, I'm glad for your sake."

"Don't say that, father; Tom will never think of me, nor do I care about
him."

"I don't exactly believe that, Bessy, for all you say so. It's my wish,
and you know it, Bessy, to see you and Tom spliced before I die; and I
thank Heaven that this false girl is out of the way--I've more hopes
now."

"Marriages are made in heaven, father," replied Bessy; "so, pray don't
say any thing more about it. It will be time enough for me to think of
Tom when Tom appears to think of me. I shall always love him as a
brother."

"Well, God's will be done! We must now try and console him, poor fellow;
and I'm very glad that we're off to-morrow. Salt water cures love, they
say, sooner than anything else."

"It may, perhaps," replied Bessy; "but I feel that if I were once really
in love the whole ocean itself could not wash my love out. However,
women are not men."

"That's true. You hug your love as you do your babies, all day long, and
never tire. Now, you see, a man gets tired of nursing in no time. I
never was in love but once."

"Oh, father, I've heard that story so often."

"Well, then, you shan't hear it again. Now, I'll go out and see where
Tom may be. I suppose he's looking at the wind, and thinking how it
changes like a woman. But I'll light my pipe first."

"Do, father; and while Tom looks at the wind and thinks of women, do you
just watch the smoke out of your pipe, and think of men and their
constancy."

"Well, I will, if it pleases you. Put the letter by, Bessy, for I
shouldn't like Tom to see it. What have you got for dinner?"

"I left that to Mrs. Maddox, so I can't tell. But there's cold pudding
in the larder; I'll put it out for Tom."

"Nay, Bessy, you must not jest with him."

"Am I likely, think you, father?" replied Bessy. "Can't I feel for him?"

"Come, come, dearest, I didn't mean to make you cry."

"I'm not crying, but I'm very sorry for Tom, and that's the truth. Now
go away with your pipe and leave me alone."

It was impossible for me to have returned without being perceived, and I
therefore remained during the whole of this conversation. I was annoyed
to discover that they knew my secret; and still more vexed at the
remainder of this colloquy, by which I discovered that Bramble had so
completely set his heart upon a union between me and Bessy, which I
considered as impossible. I felt, as all do at the time, as if I never
could love again. I walked away, and did not return home till
dinner-time. Bramble and Bessy were very kind, although they did not
talk much; and when I went away the next day I was moved with the
affectionate farewell of the latter.

It was a beautiful night, and we were running before the east wind, the
Portland Light upon our starboard beam; the other men in the boat had
lain down in their gregos and pilot jackets, and were fast asleep, while
Bramble was at the helm steering; and I, who was too restless in my mind
to feel any inclination to repose, was sitting on the sternsheets beside
him.

"Do you see the line of the _Race_" said Bramble; "it seems strong
to-night."

Bramble referred to what is called by the mariners the Race of Portland,
where the uneven ground over which the water runs creates a very heavy
sea even in a calm. Small smuggling vessels and boats, forced into it in
bad weather, have often foundered. The tide, however, runs so rapidly
over it that you are generally swept through it in a few minutes, and
then find yourself again in comparatively smooth water.

"Yes," replied I; "it is very strong to-night, from the long continuance
of the easterly wind."

"Exactly so, Tom," continued Bramble. "I've often thought that getting
into that Race is just like failing in love."

"Why so?" replied I, rather pettishly, for I was not pleased at his
referring to the subject.

"I'll tell you why, Tom," said Bramble; "because, you see, when we get
into the Race it's all boiling and bubbling and tossing about--rudder
and sails are of no use; and you are carried along by a fierce tide,
which there's no resisting, with no small damage to the upper works,
until you are fairly out again, and find breath to thank God for it.
Now, aren't that like love?"

"I suppose it is as you say so; you know best."

"Well, I think I do know best; because, you see, I have long been clear
of it. I never was in love but once, Tom; did I ever tell you about it?"

"Never," replied I.

"Well, then, as 'twill pass time away, I'll just give you the long and
the short of it, as the saying is. When I was just about twenty, and a
smart lad in my own opinion, I was on board of a transport, and we had
gone round to Portsmouth with a load of timber for the dockyard. It was
not my first trip there, for, you see, the transport was employed
wholly on that service; and during my cruising on shore I had taken up
my quarters at the Chequer Board, a house a little way from the common
Hard, in the street facing the dockyard wall; for, you see, Tom, it was
handy to us, as our ship laid at the wharf, off the mast pond, it being
just outside the dockyard gates. The old fellow who kept the house was
as round as a ball, for he never started out by any chance from one
year's end to another; his wife was dead; and he had an only daughter,
who served at the bar, in a white cap with blue streamers; and when her
hair was out of papers, and she put on clean shoes and stockings, which
she did every day after dinner, she was a very smart neat built little
heifer; and, being an only daughter, she was considered as a great catch
to any one who could get hold of her. She had quite the upper hand of
her father, who dared not say a word; and with others she would give
herself no few airs. At one time she would be as sweet as sugar, and the
next, without any cause, she'd 'wonder at your imperance.' It was
difficult to know how to take her. It's a bad thing for a girl to have a
great fortune; they get so much flattery that it turns their heads.
Well, Tom, I wasn't looking after the money, as you'll believe when I
tell you so; but as she was very chatty with me, and allowed me to come
inside the bar, which was considered as a great favor, to help rinse the
glasses, and so on, and as the other men used to joke with me, and tell
me that I should carry off the prize, I began to think that she was fond
of me, and so very naturally I became fond of her; and we met and we
parted (and she would allow me to kiss her when we parted), until I was
quite gone altogether, and did nothing but think of her all day and
dream of her all night. Well, the last time that I was in the transport
to Portsmouth, I had made up my mind to clinch the business, and as soon
as the sails were furled, I dressed myself in my best toggery and made
all sail for the old house. When I came in I found Peggy in the bar, and
a very fancy sort of young chap alongside of her. I did not think so
much of that, and I was going inside the bar to shake hands as usual,
when says she, 'Well, I should not wonder,' pulling to the half-door, as
if she were surprised at my attempting to come in.

"'Oh, ho!' says I, 'are you on that tack? what next?' and then I looked
more at the chap, and he was a very nice young man, as the saying is. As
I afterward found out, he was in the smuggling line between Cherbourg
and our coast, and he had Frenchified manners, and he talked little bits
of French, and he had French gloves for presents, and had earrings in
his ears, and lots of rings on his fingers. So I took my seat at the
wooden benches near the fire, just as sulky as a bear with a sore head,
watching their maneuvers. At last he walked out, kissing his hand as she
smiles. As the coast was clear I went up to the bar.

"'Well,' says I, 'Peggy, so the wind's shifted, is it?'

"'What do you mean?' says she. 'I suppose I may be civil to another
person as well as to you.'

"'Yes, I see no objection,' says I; 'but why was he to be inside the
bar, and I put out?'

"'Oh,' replied she, 'one at a time, you know, Mr. Philip. I haven't made
any promises to you that I know of.'

"'That's very true,' replied I, 'but--'

"'Oh, you mustn't fret here,' interrupted she. 'I'm my own mistress, I
suppose. However, I'll tell you this much, that I don't care a bit about
him, and that's the truth of it--but I did not like your coming inside
the bar so quietly, as if you had a right there, for I don't want people
to make remarks.'

"Well, the end of it was that she pacified me, and we were as great
friends almost as ever. I say almost, for I had my eyes upon her and
that chap, and did not much like it. A week after my arrival there was
to be a fair over at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight, and I asked Peggy
whether she would go with me; but she refused, saying that she was
obliged to go to her aunt's out at Limberhook, who was very old, and had
sent for her, so I thought nothing more about the matter. Well, the day
before the fair, as we were busy in the fore noon getting the timber out
of the vessel, one of my shipmates, who went to the same house, says to
me, 'I say, Tom, when I was at the Chequers last night, I overheard
Peggy promise to go to the Ryde Fair with that Frenchified smuggling
chap.'

"'Did you?' said I.

"'Yes,' replied he, 'and they agreed to start at twelve o'clock, just
after the dockyard bell rang. I thought at the time it was just to give
you the slip before you left the ship, and that she is turning you
over.'

"Well, when I heard this, did not my blood boil? for the hussy had told
me a lie in saying that she was going to her aunt's; and it was evident
that she had done so that she might go with this other fellow to the
fair. I thought the matter over and over again, for, to tell you the
truth, all I wanted then was revenge. I felt nothing but scorn for a
woman who could act in so base a manner; at the same time I wished to
punish both her and him by spoiling their day's sport; so at last I
determined that I would start right away for the fair myself, and not
only put her to shame, but give her fancy man a good drubbing, which I
was well able to do. So I walks down to Point and gets into a wherry,
keeping a sharp lookout for their coming down from the Hard. At last I
spied them, and then I made the waterman pull away, so as to keep about
three cables' lengths ahead of them, and thus I continued watching their
billing and cooing, and grinding my teeth with rage, until we had come
over to the other side. Now, you see, Tom, at that time there was no
wooden pier at Ryde as there is now, and when the tide was out there was
such a long flat of mud that there was no landing; so the way it was
managed was, the wherries came in as far as they could, and were met by
a horse and cart, which took out the passengers and carried them through
the mud and water to the hard ground. Well, when I pulled in, the man
was there with his horse and cart, and I paid my fare, and stepped out
of the wherry, expecting the man to drive off and put me on shore; but
he, seeing that there was another wherry close at hand, says he must
wait for her passengers, and make one trip of it. I did not care how
soon we met, and waited very patiently until they pulled up to us. They
were not a little surprised to see me, and not a little annoyed either.
As for Peggy, she colored to her elbows, and then tried to put up an
impudent face on the matter. He looked both foolish and angry. They were
both very smart. She had on a white gown with a yellow handkerchief on
her shoulders, a green silk bonnet and blue feathers, and he was figged
out as fine as fivepence, with white jean trousers, and rings and
chains, and Lord knows what.

"'Well,' says Peggy, as bold as brass, 'who'd have thought to have seen
you here?'

"'I did not say that I was going to see my aunt,' replied I; 'but as you
did, who would have expected to see you here?'

"'Don't talk to me, young man,' said she, as red as fire, and turning
away to her beau.

"Just as she said this, the cart drove off, the horse floundering
through the mud, which was about three feet deep, with a matter of six
inches of water above it. As she turned away aft, I turned forward,
thinking what I should do next, and then I cast my eyes down, and
observed that it was a tilting cart as they use for carrying out manure,
and that if I took the two pegs out it would fall right back. I thought
this a capital trick. The carman was sitting on his horse, and it
couldn't matter to him, so I stepped out on the front of the cart, and
standing on the shafts, I first pulled out one peg and then another,
while they were busy talking to each other, with their heads so close
that his face was under her bonnet. As soon as the second peg was out, I
helped up the front of the cart a little, and back it went, shooting
them out right headforemost in the mud. You never saw such a scramble,
for they had caught hold of each other in their fright, and they rolled
and floundered, and were half smothered before they could recover their
feet; and then a pretty pickle they were in, wet to the skin, and
covered with mud from one end to the other; they could not see out of
their eyes. Peggy did nothing but scream and flounder--she was
frightened out of her wits--while the carman and I laughed ready to
split. I gave him half a crown to drive on shore without them, which he
did, and we left them to make their way out how they could; and a pretty
pickle they did come out at last. Thus was their day's pleasure, as well
as their clothes, all spoiled; and instead of dancing at the fair and
seeing all the sights, they were shivering in their wet clothes, and the
laughingstocks to all that saw them.

"Depend upon it, I did not leave them after they had crawled out to the
beach. The fellow was, as you may suppose, as savage as a bull, and very
saucy, so I took off my jacket that I might not dirty myself, and gave
him a couple of black eyes and a bloody nose for his trouble; and as for
Peggy, I pretended to be so sorry for her, and condoled with her so
much, that at last she flew at me like a tigress--and as I knew that
there was no honor, and plenty of mud, to be gained by the conflict, I
took to my heels and ran off to the fair, where I met some of my friends
and told them what had happened, and then we had a very merry day of it,
and I felt quite cured of my love; for, you see, Peggy looked so ugly
and miserable when she was in the state I left her, that I had only to
think of her as when I last saw her, and all my love was gone."

"Did you ever meet her again?"

"I met her that very night; for, you see, she had gone to a cottage and
taken off her clothes, having insisted upon her fancy man going back to
Portsmouth to fetch her others to go home in. He dared not refuse, so
off he went in the pickle that he was. But he didn't come back again,
for, you see, there was a warrant out against him for an affray at Bear
Haven, in which a King's officer was killed; and after he had changed
his own clothes, and was proceeding to get some for her from the
Chequers, he was met by the constable who had the warrant, and carried
off handcuffed to jail, and afterward he was transported--so she never
saw him again. Well, Peggy, poor creature, had been waiting for him for
hours, expecting his return; and it was past ten o'clock when I was
coming down with some others, and saw her at the door of the cottage
weeping.

"'Good-night, Peggy,' says I.

"'Oh, Philip, do be kind, do come to me; I'm frightened out of my life.
I shall have to stay here all night.'

"So, you see, I did feel some little pity for her, and I went up to
her, and she told me how she had sent him, and he had never come back
again.

"'The fact is,' says I, 'Peggy, you aren't smart enough for such a
Frenchified chap as he is. He don't like to be seen in your company.
Come, get up, and I will see you home, at all events;' so I took charge
of her, and saw her safe to her father's door.

"'Won't you come in?' said she.

"'No, thank you,' says I.

"'Won't you forgive me, Philip?' said she.

"'Yes," says I, 'I'll forgive you, for old acquaintance' sake, and for
one more reason.'

"'What's that?' says Peggy.

"'Why,' says I, 'for the lesson which you've learned me. I've been made
a fool of once, and it's your fault; but if ever a woman makes a fool of
me again, why, then it's mine. And so, Peggy, good-by forever.'

"So I turned away on my heel, and as I left the transport the next trip,
I never saw her again."

"Well, Bramble," replied I, "I agree with you; and if ever a woman makes
a fool of me _again_, it will be my fault. You know what's happened, so
I don't mind saying so."

"Why, Tom, in your present humor, you think so; but all do not keep to
the same way of thinking as I did till it was too late to think about
marrying; but still I do not think that I should have been happy as a
single man, if it had not been for my falling in with Bessy. I should
have been very lonely, I expect, for I began to feel so. When you come
to your own door, Tom, home looks cheerless if there is no bright eye to
welcome you, and the older a man gets the more he feels that he was not
intended to live single. My yearning after something to love and to love
me, which is in our nature, was satisfied, first by having Bessy, and
then by having you--and I'm thankful."

"You might have married, and have been very unhappy."

"I might, and I might have been very happy, had I chosen a wife as a man
should do."

"And how is that, pray, Bramble?"

"Why, Tom, I've often thought upon it. In the first place look out for
good temper: if you find that you may be happy, even if your wife is a
silly woman; assure yourself first of her temper, and then you must
judge her by the way in which she does those duties which have fallen to
her lot; for if a girl is a dutiful and affectionate daughter there is
little fear but that she will prove a loving and obedient wife. But I
think we have had our spell here, Tom, and it's rather cold: rouse up
one of those chaps, and tell him to come to the helm. I'll coil myself
up and have a snooze till the morning, and do you do the same."

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

     In which I receive a very severe Blow from a Party or Parties
     unknown.

The day after this conversation we fell in with several vessels
windbound at the entrance of the Channel. I took charge of one, and the
wind shifting to the S.W., and blowing strong, I carried her up to the
Pool. As soon as I could leave her I took a boat to go down to
Greenwich, as I was most anxious to have a long conversation with
Virginia. It was a dark squally night, with rain at intervals between
the gusts of wind, and I was wet through long before I landed at the
stairs, which was not until past eleven o'clock. I paid the waterman,
and hastened up to my mother's house, being aware that they would either
be all in bed or about to retire. It so happened that I did not go the
usual way, but passed by the house of old Nanny; and as I walked by with
a quick step, and was thinking of her and her misfortunes, I fell over
something which, in the dark, I did not perceive, and which proved to be
some iron railings, which the workmen who were fixing them up had
carelessly left on the ground, previous to their returning to their work
on the ensuing morning. Fortunately the spikes at the ends of them were
from me, and I received no injury, except a severe blow on the shin; and
as I stopped a moment to rub it, I thought that I heard a cry from the
direction of old Nanny's house; but the wind was very high, and I was
not certain. I stopped and listened, and it was repeated. I gained the
door. It was so dark that I groped for the latch. The door was open, and
when I went in I heard a gurgling kind of noise and a rustling in her
chamber. "Who's there?--What's this?" cried I; for I had a foreboding
that something was wrong. I tumbled over some old iron, knocked down the
range of keys, and made a terrible din, when, of a sudden, just as I had
recovered my legs, I was thrown down again by somebody who rushed by me
and darted out of the door. As the person rushed by me I attempted to
seize his arm, but I received a severe blow on the mouth, which cut my
lip through, and at first I thought I had lost all my front teeth.

I rose up. I heard a heavy groaning; so, instead of pursuing the robber,
I felt my way into Nanny's chamber. "Nanny," said I, "mother, what's the
matter?" but there was no reply, except another groan. I knew where she
kept her tinderbox and matches; I found them, and struck a light; and by
the light of the match I perceived the candle and candlestick lying on
the floor. I picked it up, lighted it, and then turned to the bed; the
flock mattress was above all, and the groans proceeded from beneath. I
threw it off, and found old Nanny still breathing, but in a state of
exhaustion and quite insensible. By throwing water on her face, after
some little while I brought her to her senses. The flaring of the candle
reminded me that the shop door was open. I went and made it fast, and
then spoke to her. It was a long while before I could obtain any
rational answer. She continued to groan and cry at intervals, "Don't
leave me, Jack, don't leave me." At last she fell into a sort of slumber
from exhaustion, and in this state she remained for more than an hour.
One thing was evident to me, which was, that the party, whoever it might
be, had attempted to smother the poor old woman, and that in a few
seconds more he would have perpetrated the deed.

At last old Nanny roused up, and turning to me, said, "It's Jack, is it
not? I thought so. Oh, my poor head! What has happened?"

"That's what I want to know from you, mother," replied I; "but first I
will tell you what I know of the business." Which I did, to give her
time to collect her thoughts.

"Yes," said she, "so it was. I was just in bed, and my candle was not
out, when I heard a noise at the door, as if they were turning a key in
it, and then a man entered; but he had something over his face, I
thought, or he had blacked it. 'What do you want?' cried I. 'I come for
a light, old woman,' said he. I cried 'Thieves! murder!' as loud as I
could, and he ran up to me just as I was getting out of bed, and tried
to smother me. I don't recollect anything more till I heard your voice.
Thank you, Jack, and God bless you; if you hadn't come to the assistance
of a poor old wretch like me, I should have been dead by this time."

I felt that what she said was true, and I then asked her many questions,
so as to lead to the discovery of the party.

"How was he dressed?" inquired I.

"I can't exactly say. But, do you know, Jack, I fancied that he had a
pensioner's coat on; indeed, I am almost sure of it. I think I tore off
one of his buttons, I recollect its giving way; I may be wrong--my head
wanders."

But I thought that most likely Nanny was right, so I looked down on the
floor with the candle, and there I picked up a pensioner's button.

"You're right, Nanny; here is the button."

"Well, now, Jack, I can't talk anymore; you won't leave me to-night, I'm
sure."

"No, no, mother, that I will not. Try to go to sleep."

Hardly had Nanny laid her head down again, when it came across my mind
like a flash of lightning that it must have been Spicer who had
attempted the deed; and my reason for so thinking was that the blow I
had received on the mouth was not like that from the hand of a man, but
from the wooden socket fixed to the stump of his right arm. The more I
reflected upon it the more I was convinced. He was a clever armorer, and
had picked the lock; and I now recalled to mind what had never struck me
before, that he had often asked me questions about old Nanny, and
whether I thought the report that she had money was correct.

It was daylight before old Nanny woke up, and then she appeared to be
quite recovered. I told her my suspicions, and my intentions to
ascertain the truth of them as far as I possibly could.

"Well, and what then?" said old Nanny.

"Why, then, if we bring it home to him, he will be hanged, as he
deserves."

"Now, Jack, hear me," said old Nanny. "You won't do anything I don't
wish, I'm sure; and now I'll tell you that I never would give evidence
against him, or any other man, to have him hanged. So, if you find out
that it is him, do not say a word about it. Promise me, Jack."

"Why, mother, I can't exactly say that I will; but I will talk to Peter
Anderson about it."

"It's no use talking to him; and, if you do, it must be under promise of
secrecy, or I will not consent to it. Jack, Jack, recollect that my poor
boy was hanged from my fault. Do you think I will hang another? Oh, no.
Perhaps this very man had a foolish wicked mother, like me, and has,
like my boy, been led into guilt. Jack, you must do as I wish--you
shall, Jack."

"Well, mother, I have no animosity against the man himself; and, if you
forgive him, I do not see why I should do anything."

"I don't forgive him, Jack; but I think of my own poor boy."

"Well, mother, since you wish it, it shall be so; and if I do prove that
the man I suspect is the party, I will say nothing, and make Anderson
promise the same, as I think he will. But how is it that people come to
rob a poor old woman like you? How is it, mother, that there is a report
going about that you have money?"

"Is there such a report, Jack?"

"Yes, mother, every one says so; why, I do not know; and as long as it
is supposed, you will always be subject to attacks like this, unless,
indeed, if you have money, you were to put it away safely, and let
everybody know that you have done so. Tell me truly, mother, have you
any money?"

"Jack, what a boy you are to ask questions. Well, perhaps I have a
little--a very little; but no one will ever find out where I have hidden
it."

"But they will try, mother, as this man has done, and you will always be
in peril of your life. Why not place it in the hands of some safe
person?"

"Safe person! Who's safe nowadays?"

"Why, for instance, there's Mr. Wilson."

"Wilson! what do you know about him, Jack, except that he has a smooth
face and a bald head? You're young, Jack, and don't know the world. The
money's safe where it is, and no one will ever find it."

"If so, who is to find it after--" I stopped, for I did not like to say,
after she was dead.

"I know what you would have said, Jack; who's to find it after my death?
That's very true. I never thought of that, and I must will it away. I
never thought of that, Jack, it's very true, and I'm glad that you have
mentioned it. But who dare I tell? who can I trust?--Can I trust you,
Jack?--can I?--I ought, for it's all for you, Jack, when I die."

"Mother, whoever it may be for, you may, I hope, trust me."

"Well, I think I can. I'll tell you where it is, Jack, and that will
prove that it is for you, for nobody else will know where to find it.
But, Jack, dear, dear Jack, don't you rob me, as my son did; don't rob
me, and leave me penniless, as he did; promise me?"

"I never will, mother; you need not be afraid."

"Yes; so you say, and so he said; he swore and he cried too, Jack, and
then he took it all, and left his mother without a farthing."

"Well, mother, then don't tell me; I'd rather not know. You will only be
uncomfortable, and so let the money go."

"No, Jack, that won't do either; I will tell you, for I can trust you.
But first, Jack, go out and look behind the house, that there is no one
listening at the window; for if any one should hear--go, look round
carefully, and then come back."

I did as she wished, and then Nanny bid me hold my head closer to her,
while she whispered, "You must take the back out of the fireplace, and
then pull out three bricks, and then put your hand into the hole, and
you will find a small box; and there you will find a little money--a
very little, Jack, hardly worth having, but still it may be of some
use; and it's all yours when I die. Jack--I give it to you."

"Mother, I'm thankful for your kindness, but I cannot touch it if you do
die without you leave it to me by your will."

"Ah! that's true, Jack. Well, tell Anderson to come here, and I'll tell
him I'll leave the money to you; but I won't tell him where it is, I'll
only say that I leave you everything I have. They'll suppose that it's
the shop and all the pretty things." Here she chuckled for some time.

It was now broad daylight, and Nanny told me that she would like to get
up, and see about a padlock being put to her door before night; so I
wished her good-by, and left her.

CHAPTER FORTY

     Showing the great Advantages to be derived from Patronage.

I left old Nanny, and arrived at my mother's house in time for
breakfast. I did not, however, find her in a very good humor; something
had evidently ruffled her. Virginia also, who welcomed me most
cordially, was taciturn and grave. My mother made but one observation
during our repast.

"Well, Tom," said she, "you've found out what it is to wish to marry for
love. I only wish it may be a lesson to others."

To this evident attack upon Virginia, at the expense of my feelings, I
made no reply, and soon afterward my mother went to superintend her
establishment, leaving me and my sister alone.

"Tom," said she, "I hope by this time you are no longer suffering from
your late cruel disappointment. I have felt for you, I assure you, and,
assuring you of that, will not again revert to the subject. Let her be
blotted from your memory as soon as possible."

"Be it so, my dear Virginia; but you are grave, and my mother is
evidently out of humor. You must explain this."

"That is easily done. I have made a sad mistake. I was so much annoyed
at my mother's system toward me that I ventured, without her knowledge,
to write to Lady Hercules, requesting her protection and influence to
procure me some situation as a companion to a lady, amanuensis, or
reader. It appears that her ladyship was not very sincere in her
professions when we had an interview with her; at all events, her reply
was anything but satisfactory, and, unfortunately, it was addressed to
my mother and not to me. You can have no idea of my mother's indignation
upon the receipt of it, and she has not been sparing in her reproaches
to me for having written without her knowledge, and having, by so doing,
subjected her to such a mortification. I certainly am sorry to have done
so. As for her ladyship's answer, it would have been to me more a
subject of mirth than any other feeling. It has, however, proved the
cause of much annoyance from my mother's continually harping upon it."

"Have you the letter of Lady Hercules?"

"I have a copy of it, which I took, intending to have sent it to you the
next time that I wrote. I will bring it down if you will wait a minute."

When Virginia returned she put the following epistle into my hand:

     MRS. SAUNDERS--I have received a letter from your daughter, which,
     I presume, was forwarded as a specimen of her penmanship; otherwise
     it was your duty to have addressed me yourself. I said to you, when
     I met you at Greenwich, that you were educating your daughter above
     her condition in life, and I now repeat it. My patronage is
     extended only to those who are not above their situations, which, I
     am sorry to observe, most people are now. Nevertheless, as I did
     say that I would exert my influence in your daughter's behalf, in
     consequence of your having been a decent, well-behaved menial to
     me, I have made inquiry among my acquaintances, and find that I may
     be, _possibly_, able to place her with my friend, Lady Towser, as a
     'boudoir-assistant.' I have said _possibly_, as I am by no means
     sure that she will be equal to the situation, and the number of
     applicants are very numerous. The inclosed paper from Lady Towser
     will give you an idea of what will be requisite:

     "Morning, up at 6, and nicely dressed; come in in list shoes, and
     wait at bedside, in case Lady Towser should be troubled with her
     morning cough, to hand the emulsion, etc. At 9, to call and assist
     to dress Lady Towser's head tirewoman; follow her to Lady T.'s
     chamber, and obey orders. Breakfast in housekeeper's room. After
     breakfast assist housemaid to dust ornaments, and on Saturdays and
     Wednesdays, _wash_, comb, and examine dogs; other days comb and
     examine them only; clean and feed macaw, cockatoo, and parrot, also
     canary and other birds; bring up dogs' dinners, and prevent them
     fighting at meals. After dogs' dinners read to Lady T., if
     required; if not, get up collars and flounces, laces, etc., for
     Lady T. and Lady T.'s tirewoman. After your own dinner assist
     housekeeper as required in the still-room; fine needlework; repair
     clothes before they go to wash; dress and brush Lady T.'s perukes;
     walk out with dogs if weather is fine, and be careful to prevent
     their making any acquaintances whatever.

     "Evening--Read to Lady T., write notes, look over bills, and keep
     general accounts; if not wanted, to make herself useful in
     housekeeper's room, and obey all orders received from her or head
     tirewoman. At night see that the hot water is ready for Lady T.'s
     feet, and wait for her retiring to bed; wash Lady T.'s feet, and
     cut corns, as required; read Lady T. to sleep, or, if not required
     to read, wait till she is certain that Lady T. is so.

     "Now the only points in which I think your daughter may fail is in
     properly washing, combing, and examining the dogs, and cutting her
     ladyship's corns; but surely she can practice a little of both, as
     she will not be wanted for a month. There can be no difficulty
     about the first; and as for the latter, as all people in your rank
     of life have corns, she may practice upon yours or her father's. At
     all events, there can be no want of corns in Greenwich Hospital
     among the pensioners. I am desired to say that Lady T. gives no
     wages the first year; and you will be expected to send your
     daughter neatly fitted out, that she may be able to remain in the
     room when there is company. If this offer will not suit, I can do
     nothing more; the difficulty of patronage increases every day. You
     will send an answer.

     "VIRGINIA HAWKINGTREFYLYAN.

"I was just closing my letter when Lady Scrimmage came in; she tells me
that Lady Towser is suited, and that you have no hopes of this
situation. I have done my best. Lady Scrimmage has, however, informed me
that she thinks she can, upon my recommendation, do something for you in
Greenwich, as she deals largely with a highly respectable and
fashionable milliner of the same name as your own, and with whom it
would be of the greatest advantage to your daughter to be placed as an
apprentice, or something of that sort. This is an opportunity not to be
lost, and I therefore have requested Lady S. to write immediately, and I
trust by _my patronage_, she will gain a _most enviable situation_."

"That postscript is admirable," observed I, "and ought to have put my
mother in a good humor. Is she not called by Lady Hercules 'highly
respectable and fashionable'?"

"Very true," replied Virginia; "but my mother cannot get over the first
part of the letter, in which she is mentioned as 'a decent and
well-behaved menial.' She has since received a note from Lady Scrimmage,
requesting her to take me in some capacity or another, adding, by way of
postscript, 'You know you need not keep her if you do not like--it is
very easy to send her away for idleness or impertinence; but I wish to
oblige Lady Hercules, and so, pray, at all events, write and say that
you will try her."

"And what has my mother said in reply?"

"She did not show me the answer; but, from what I have collected from
her conversation, she has written a most haughty, and, I presume it will
be said, a most impertinent letter to both the ladies; the one to Lady
Scrimmage accompanied with her bill, which has not been paid these three
years. I am sorry that my mother has been annoyed. My father, to whom I
related what had taken place, told me that my mother was very ill
treated by Lady Hercules, and that she had smothered her resentment with
the hopes of benefiting her children by her patronage; but that was at a
time when she little expected to be so prosperous as she is now."

"It is all true, my dear girl; I recollect my father telling me the
whole story. However, I presume my mother, now that she can venture upon
defiance, has not failed to resort to it."

"That I am convinced of. I only hope that she will carry her indignation
against great people so far as not to court them as she has done, and
abandon all her ridiculous ideas of making a match for me. After all,
she has my welfare sincerely at heart, and, although mistaken in the
means of securing it, I cannot but feel that she is actuated solely by
her love for me."

We then changed the conversation to Janet, about whom I could now speak
calmly; after which I narrated to her what had occurred during the
night, and my intention to consult with my father and Anderson upon the
subject.

Virginia then left me that she might assist her mother, and I hastened
to my father's ward, where I found him, and, after our first greeting,
requested that he would accompany me to Anderson's office, as I had
something to communicate to them both. As I walked along with my father
I perceived Spicer at a corner with his foot on a stone step and his
hand to his knee, as if in pain. At last he turned round and saw us. I
walked up to him, and he appeared a little confused as he said, "Ah!
Tom, is that you? I did not know you were at Greenwich."

"I came here last night," replied I; "and I must be off again soon. Are
you lame?"

"Lame! No; what should make me lame?" replied he, walking by the side of
us as if he were not so.

I looked at his coat, and perceived that the third button on the right
side was missing.

"You've lost a button, Spicer," observed I.

"So I have," replied he; and, as we had now arrived at Anderson's door,
my father and I turned from him to walk in and wished him good-by.

Anderson was in his office, and as soon as the door was closed I
communicated to them what had occurred during the night, expressing my
conviction that Spicer was the party who had attempted the murder. In
corroboration I reminded my father of the loss of the button from
Spicer's coat, and produced the one which Nanny had torn off.

"This is something more than suspicion," observed Anderson; "but if, as
you say, old Nanny will not give evidence against him, I know not what
can be done. Did you say that the old woman wanted to speak with me?"

"Yes, and I really wish that you would call there oftener."

"Well," replied Anderson, "I'll go, Tom; but, to be plain with you, I do
not think that I can be of much use there. I have been several times.
She will gossip as long as you please; but if you would talk seriously,
she turns a deaf ear. You see, Tom, there's little to be gained when you
have to contend with such a besetting sin as avarice. It is so powerful,
especially in old age, that it absorbs all other feelings. Still it is
my duty, and it is also my sincere wish, to call her to a proper sense
of her condition. The poor old creature is, like myself, not very far
from the grave; and, when once in it, it will be too late. I will go,
Tom, and most thankful shall I be if, with God's help, I may prove of
service to her."

We then left old Anderson to his duties, and my father went home with
me. We had a long conversation relative to my sister, as well as about
my own affairs. I had intended to have remained some days at Greenwich,
but this was the first time that I had been there since Janet's
desertion, and the sight of everything so reminded me of her, and made
everything so hateful to me, that I became very melancholy. My mother
was, moreover, very cross, and my sister anything but comfortable; and,
on the third day, having received a letter from Bramble, stating that he
had arrived at Deal, and that the easterly winds having again set in,
they talked, of setting out again in the galley, I made this an excuse
for leaving; and for the first time did I quit Greenwich without regret.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

     In which it is proved that Sailors have very correct Ideas as to
     Metempsychosis.

The day after my return to Deal I again embarked with Bramble and three
others, to follow up our vocation. The second day we were abreast of the
Ram Head, when the men in another pilot boat, which had come out of
Plymouth and was close to us, waved their hats and kept away to speak to
us. We hove-to for them.

"Have you heard the news?" cried one of the men.

"No."

"Lord Nelson has beat the French and Spanish fleet."

"Glad to hear it--huzza!"

"Lord Nelson's killed."

"Lord Nelson's killed!" The intelligence was repeated from mouth to
mouth, and then every voice was hushed; the other boat hauled her wind
without further communication, nor did we at the time think of asking
for any more. The shock which was given to the whole country was equally
felt by those who were seeking their bread in a small boat, and for some
little while we steered our course in silence.

"What d'ye say, my lads?" said Bramble, who first broke silence; "shall
we haul up for Cawsand, and get a paper? I shan't be content till I know
the whole history."

This was consented to unanimously; no one thought of piloting vessels
for the moment and earning food for their families. When the country
awarded a public funeral to our naval hero, it did not pay him a more
sincere tribute than was done in this instance by five pilots in a
galley. At Cawsand we obtained the newspaper, and after a few pots of
beer we again made sail for the mouth of the Channel. It hardly need be
observed that the account of this winding-up, as it proved, of our naval
triumphs, with the death of Nelson, was the subject of conversation for
more than one day. On the third we were all separated, having fallen in
with many windbound vessels who required our services. The one I took
charge of was a West Indiaman, deeply laden with rum and sugar, one of a
convoy which were beating about in the Chops of the Channel. As we were
standing out from the English coast the captain and one of the
passengers were at the taffrail close to me.

"What do you think of the weather, pilot?" said the captain.

"I think we shall have a change of wind, and dirty weather before twelve
hours are over our heads," replied I.

"Well," said he, "that's my opinion. There is a cloud rising in the
southwest; and, look, there are some Mother Carey's chickens dipping in
the water astern."

"Where?" said the passenger, a curly-headed Creole, about twenty years
old.

"Those small birds," replied the captain, walking forward.

The passenger went down below, and soon returned with his
double-barreled fowling-piece.

"I have long wished to shoot one of those birds," said he; "and now they
are so near, I think I may get a shot."

He raised his piece several times without firing, when the captain came
aft, and, perceiving his intention, caught his arm as he was about to
level again.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Higgins, but I really must request that you will
not fire at those birds."

"Why not?"

"Because I cannot permit it."

"But what's to hinder me?" replied the young man, coloring up; "they are
not in your manifest, I presume."

"No, sir, they are not; but I tell you frankly that I would not kill one
for a hundred pounds. Nay, I would as soon murder one of my
fellow-creatures."

"Well, that may be your feeling, but it's not mine."

"Nevertheless, sir, as it is, to say the least of it, very unlucky, you
will oblige me by yielding to my request."

"Nonsense!--just to humor your superstitious feeling."

"We are not in port yet, Mr. Higgins; and I must insist upon it you do
not fire. You have taken my gunpowder, and I cannot allow it to be used
in that way."

During this altercation I observed that many of the sailors had come
aft, and, although they said nothing, were evidently of the same opinion
as the captain. I was aware that there was a superstitious feeling among
the seamen relative to these birds, but I had never seen it so strongly
exemplified before.

The mate gave a wink to the captain, behind the passenger's back, and
made a motion to him to go forward, which the captain did. The passenger
again raised his gun, when it was seized by two of the seamen.

"You must not fire at these birds, sir!" said one of them.

"Why, you scoundrel?--I'll give you the contents of both barrels if you
don't leave my gun alone."

"No, you won't--you're not among niggers now, master," replied the
seaman; "and as you have threatened to shoot me, I must take the gun
from you."

A scuffle ensued, during which both barrels were discharged in the air,
and the gun taken from Mr. Higgins, who was boiling with rage. The gun
was handed forward, and I saw it no more. Mr. Higgins, in a state of
great excitement, went down into the cabin.

The captain then came aft to me, when I observed that I had no idea that
seamen were so very particular on that point; and I thought that they
had gone too far.

"You may think so, pilot," replied he, "but when I tell you that I fully
believe that these birds are as good as ourselves, you will not be
surprised--"

"How do you mean, as good as ourselves?"

"I believe that they _were_ every one sailors like ourselves in former
times. They are now the sailors' friends, come to warn us of the
approaching storm, and I can tell you a circumstance which occurred in
the West Indies, which fully proves to me that they are not wantonly
killed without a judgment upon those who do so. I never believed it
myself till then; but old Mason, who is now on board, was one of the
seamen of the vessel in which the circumstance happened."

"Indeed!" replied I, "I should like to hear it."

"I can't tell you now," said he; "I must go down and satisfy that puppy
Creole, whose sugars are on board. He will otherwise make such a row
between me and the owners that I may lose the command of the vessel. And
yet, would you imagine it? although he will not credit what I tell him
about Mother Carey's chickens, the foolish young man firmly believes in
the Obi."

I did not think one superstition more ridiculous than the other, but
still as I always found that it was useless to argue such points, I said
nothing, and the captain went down into the cabin to pacify Mr. Higgins.

It was late in the first watch, and when the passengers had retired to
bed, that the captain came on deck. "Well," said he, "I told Mr. Higgins
my story, and as there was a bit of Obi nonsense in it, he believed it,
and he has not only made friends, but thanked me for not having allowed
him to shoot the birds; and now I'll tell you the real story:

"A schooner was coming down from the Virgin Isles with sugar and
passengers to Antigua, where I was lying with my ship. She had a fine
young fellow of the name of Shedden on board; and, besides other
passengers, there was an old black woman, who, where she resided, had
always been considered as an Obi woman. I saw her afterward; and you
never beheld such a complication of wrinkles as she was, from her
forehead to her feet, and her woolly head was as white as snow. They
were becalmed as soon as they were clear of the islands; and, as it
happened, some Mother Carey's chickens were flying about the stern.
Shedden must needs get at his gun to shoot them. The old black woman sat
near the taffrail; she saw him with his gun, but she said nothing. At
last he fired, and killed three of them.

"'There are three down!' cried out some of the other passengers.

"'How many?' said the old woman, raising her head; '_three!_ Then count
the sharks which are coming up.'

"'Count the sharks, mother! why count them? There's plenty of them,'
replied Shedden, laughing.

"'I tell you that there will be but three sent,' replied the old woman,
who then sunk down her head and said no more.

"Well, the negroes who were passengers on board, most of them Mr.
Shedden's slaves, looked very blank, for they knew that old Etau never
spoke without reason. In about ten minutes afterward, three large sharks
swam up to the vessel, with their fins above water.

"'There's the three sharks, sure enough!' said the passengers.

"'Are they come?' said Etau, raising her head.

"'Yes, moder, dere dey be--very large shark,' replied one of the
negroes.

"'Then three are doomed,' said the old woman, 'and here we stay, and the
waves shall not run, nor the wind blow, till the three sharks have their
food. I say three are doomed!'

"The passengers were more or less alarmed with this prophecy of old
Etau's, according as they put faith in her. However, they all went to
bed quite well, and the next morning they got up the same. Still there
was not a breath of wind, the whole sea was as smooth as glass, and the
vessel laid where she was the night before, in about six fathoms of
water, about a mile from the reef, and you could see the coral rocks
beneath her bottom as plain as if they were high and dry; and what
alarmed them the next morning was that the three large sharks were still
slowly swimming round and round the schooner. All that day it remained a
dead calm, and the heat was dreadful, although the awnings were spread.
Night came on, and the people, becoming more frightened, questioned old
Etau, but all the answer she gave was, '_Three_ are doomed!'

"The passengers and crew were now terrified out of their wits, and they
all went to bed with very melancholy forebodings, for the elements
appeared as if they were arrested till the penalty was paid. For, you
observe, pilot, there is always a light breeze as regular as the sun
rises and goes down; but now the breezes only appeared to skirt the
land, and when they came from the offing invariably stopped two or three
miles from the schooner. It was about midnight that there was a stir in
the cabin, and it appeared that Mr. Shedden had the yellow fever, and
shortly afterward another white man, a sailor belonging to the schooner,
then one of Mr. Shedden's slaves. Well, there the fever stopped--no one
else was taken ill--the usual remedies were applied, but before morning
they were all three delirious. At sunrise it was still calm, and
continued so till sunset; and all the day the passengers were annoyed by
the back fins of the three sharks, which continued to swim about. Again
they went to bed, and just before one o'clock in the morning Mr.
Shedden, in his delirium, got out of his bed, and, rushing on the deck,
jumped overboard before any one could prevent him; and old Etau, who
never left where she sat, was heard to say, '_One_!' and the bell was
struck _one_ by the seaman forward, who did not know what had happened.
Morning came on again and there were but two sharks to be seen. About
noon the other white man died and he was thrown overboard; and as one
shark seized his body and swam away, old Etau cried out, '_Two!_' An
hour afterward the negro died, and was thrown overboard and carried away
by the third shark, and old Etau cried out, '_Three!_ the price is
paid!'

"Well, every one crowded around the old woman to hear what she would
say, and they asked her if all was over, and whether they should have
any wind? and her reply was, 'When the three birds come from the sea to
replace those which were killed.' For you see, pilot, if one of these
birds is killed, it is certain that some one of the crew must die and
be thrown overboard to become a Mother Carey chicken, and replace the
one that has been destroyed. Well, after a time, although we never saw
them rise, three Mother Carey's chickens were seen dipping and flying
about astern of the schooner; and they told old Etau, who said, 'You'll
have wind and plenty--and plenty of waves to make up for the calm;' and
so they had sure enough, for it came on almost a hurricane, and the
schooner scudded before it under bare poles until she arrived at
Antigua, with her bulwarks washed away, and a complete wreck. I was
there at the time, and old Mason, who was on board, told me the story,
and asked me to take him, as he would not remain on board of the
schooner. And now I leave you to judge, after knowing this to be a fact,
whether I was not right in preventing Mr. Higgins from shooting the
Mother Carey chickens?"

"Why, yes," replied I, "with such a _fact_ before my eyes, I should have
done the same."

Mr. Higgins not venturing to kill any of these receptacles for the souls
of departed seamen, we arrived safely at the Downs, where I gave up
charge to a river pilot, for the other vessels which Bramble and our
companions had taken charge of were all bound to the Downs, and arrived
at nearly the same time that I did, and we had agreed to embark again in
the galley, and run out in quest of the remainder of the convoy.

This we did on the following day, much to the vexation of Bessy, who
declared we only came on shore to be off again.

I ought to observe that Bessy and I had become much more intimate since
the explanation which had taken place; and although it never entered my
head that I should ever feel toward her more than as a brother to a
sister, I was pleased and soothed with the touching proofs of kindness
and commiseration which she took every opportunity of showing toward me.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

     A heavy Gale, a Wreck, and a Rescue.

We had run out in our galley as far as the Start, when the appearance of
the weather became very threatening. It was just about the time of the
equinoctial gales, and there was a consultation among us whether we
should run into Torquay or return to Deal.

Bramble observed, that as the gale coming on would, in all probability,
blow for three days, he thought it was no use remaining all that time at
Torquay, where we should be put to extra expense, and that we should be
better on shore at our own homes. This remark decided the point, and
about dusk we put the boat's head along shore for up Channel. The wind
was at that time about S.S.W., but occasionally shifting a point or two.
The sky had become covered over with one black mass of clouds, which
hung down so low that they appeared almost to rest on the water; and
there was that peculiar fitful moaning which is ever the precursor of a
violent gale of wind. At nightfall we reefed our lug-sails; and, while
one sat at the helm, the rest of us lounged against the gunnel, buttoned
up in our pilot jackets; some shutting their eyes, as if to invite
sleep, others watching the waves, which now rose fast, and danced and
lapped at the weather broadside as if they would fain have entered into
the boat. But of that we had little fear; our galley was one of the
finest boats that ever swam, and we felt as secure as if we were on
board of a three-decked ship. As the night advanced, so did the wind
increase and the sea rise; lightning darted through the dense clouds,
and for a moment we could scan the horizon. Everything was threatening;
yet our boat, with the wind about two points free, rushed gallantly
along, rising on the waves like a sea-bird, and sinking into the hollow
of the waters as if she had no fear of any attempt on their part to
overwhelm her. Thus did we continue to run on during the night, every
hour the gale increasing, the billows mounting up until they broke in
awful and majestic crests, and often so near to us that we presented our
backs in a close file against the weather bulwarks to prevent any body
of water from pouring in.

"We shall have light soon," observed one of the men.

"And we shall want it to beach the boat in such weather as this,"
replied another. "We shall have it harder yet before day."

"Depend upon it this will be a mischievous gale," observed Bramble, "and
our coast will be strewed with wrecks. Any ships under canvas now,
between the Channel shores, will stand but a poor chance against this
heavy sea, which bears down with such force. I'd rather be in this boat
now than in any vessel in mid-Channel."

"And I had rather be on shore than in either," rejoined I.

"Well, Tom," said one of the pilots, "I do really believe you this
time."

When it was broad daylight, the coast to leeward presented a wild and
terrific scene, lashed as it was by the furious surf, which dashed its
spray half-way up the towering white cliffs, for it was within two hours
of high water. The waves were now really mountains high, and their broad
surfaces were pitted into little waves by the force of the wind, which
covered the whole expanse of waters with one continued foam. On our
weather bow a vessel with her foremast gone was pitching heavily, and at
times nearly buried beneath the wild tumult. Her fate was sealed; to
leeward were the cliffs of the South Foreland, and on our lee-bow lay
the shelving beach of Deal.

"This will be awkward landing, shipmates," said Bramble; "and yet we
must try it. I'll fill my pipe--hope it won't be the last."

Although not said in a serious manner, there were few of us whose hearts
did not flutter responsively to this surmise, for the danger became
every minute more imminent, and we knew what a terrific surf there must
be then running on the shingle beach. But we now rapidly approached the
shore; we were near to the floating light, and in the roadstead not a
vessel remained; all had weighed and preferred being under what canvas
they could bear. At last we were within two cables' lengths of the
beach, and even at this distance from it we were surrounded with the
breakers; the surf broke many feet high, and roared as it rushed up with
a velocity that was appalling, dashing the foam right to the door of
Bramble's cottage, which was forty or fifty yards higher than it
generally gained to even in very bad weather. We now lowered our sails,
stowed them in the boat, and got our oars to pass, backing against the
surf to prevent it from forcing us on the beach until the proper time.

It may not, perhaps, be known to many of my readers that there is a sort
of regularity even in the wild waves; that is, occasionally a master
wave, as it is termed, from being of larger dimensions than its
predecessors, pours its whole volume on the beach; after which, by
watching your time, you will find that two waves will run into one
another, and, as it were, neutralize each other, so that, for a few
seconds, you have what they call a smooth; the safest plan of landing
then is to watch these two chances, either to run in on the master wave,
or to wait till the arrival of the smooth.

The latter is generally preferred, and with good reason, as unless a
boat can be forced in as fast as the master wave runs in, you are worse
off than if you had landed at any other time.

The helm had been resigned to Bramble, who ordered me to go forward with
the boat's painter, a long coil of rope, and stand ready either to leap
out with it or throw it to those on shore, as might be most advisable;
the other men were sitting on the thwarts, their long oars in the
rowlocks, backing out as desired, and all ready to strain every nerve
when the order was given by Bramble to pull in.

The danger which we were about to incur was fully evident to the crowds
which were assembled on the beach; not only the pilots, who stood there
ready to assist us--some with ropes with iron hooks at the end of
them--others all ready to dart into the surf to hold on the boat, or, if
required, to link their arms together, so as to form a living chain
which the undertow could not drag away with it; higher up, women and
children, their clothes driven by the furious gale, with one hand
holding on their caps, and with the other supporting themselves by the
gunnels of the boats hauled up, the capstans, or perhaps an anchor with
its fluke buried in the shingle, were looking on with dismay and with
beating hearts, awaiting the result of the venturous attempt, and I
soon discovered the form of Bessy, who was in advance of all the
others.

[Illustration: WRECK OF THE GALLEY.--Marryat, Vol. X., p. 407.]

After a careful watching for perhaps two minutes on the part of Bramble,
he gave the word, and on dashed the galley toward the strand, keeping
pace with the wild surges, and although buried in the foam, not shipping
one drop of water.

"Now, my men, give way--for your lives, give way," cried Bramble, as a
cresting wave came towering on, as if in angry pursuit of us. The men
obeyed, but, in their exertions, the stroke oar snapped in two, the man
fell back, and prevented the one behind him from pulling. Our fate was
sealed; the surge poured over, and throwing us broadside to the beach,
we were rolled over and over in the boiling surf. A cry was heard--a cry
of terror and despair--on the part of the women. I heard it as I was
swept away by the undertow, and the next wave poured over me; but all
was activity and energy on the part of the men who were on the beach:
the next wave that run in, they recovered me and two more by linking
their arms and allowing the surf to break over them. We were so much
bruised that we could not stand; they dragged us up, and left us to the
women. Bramble and four others were still struggling for life; again two
were saved--but the men on the beach were exhausted by their strenuous
exertions.

[Illustration: WE FOUND BOTH BRAMBLE AND BESSY CLINGING TO THE
ROPE.--Marryat, Vol. X., p. 409.]

I had just recovered myself so as to sit up, when I perceived that they
were not acting in concert as before; indeed, in the last attempt,
several of them had narrowly escaped with their own lives. Bessy was now
down among them wildly gesticulating; Bramble still floated on the
boiling surf, but no chain was again formed; the wave poured in bearing
him on its crest; it broke, and he was swept away again by the
undertow, which dragged him back with a confused heap of singles
clattering one over the other as they descended. I saw him again, just
as another wave several feet in height was breaking over him--I felt
that he was lost; when Bessy, with a hook rope in her hand, darted
toward him right under the wave as it turned over, and as she clasped
his body, they both disappeared under the mountain surge. Another shriek
was raised by the women, while the men stood as if paralyzed. In my
excitement I had gained my legs, and I hastened to seize the part of the
rope which remained on the beach. Others then came and helped; we hauled
upon it, and found that there was weight at the end. Another sea poured
in; we hastily gathered in the slack of the rope, and when the water
retreated, we found both Bramble and Bessy clinging to the rope. In a
moment the men rushed down and hauled up the bodies. Bramble had hold of
the rope by both hands--it was the clutch of death; Bessy had her arms
round her father's neck; both were senseless. The boatmen carried them
up to the cottage, and the usual methods of recovery were resorted to
with success. Still we had to lament the death of two of our best
pilots, whose loss their wives and children were loudly wailing, and
whose bodies were not found for many days afterward. Alas! they were not
the only ones who were lamented. Upward of three hundred vessels were
lost during that dreadful gale, and hardly a seaport or fishing town but
bewailed its many dead.

Whether it was that the women who attended Bessy were more active than
the men, or that she was younger, and her circulation of blood was more
rapid, or because she was a female, certain it is that Bessy first
recovered her speech, and her first question was, "Where was her
father?" Bramble did not speak, but fell into a sleep immediately after
he was brought to life. I had changed my clothes, and was watching by
him for an hour or more when he woke up.

[Illustration: BRAMBLE HAD KNELT BY THE BEDSIDE, AND WAS EVIDENTLY IN
PRAYER--Marryat, Vol. X., p. 411]

"Ah! Tom, is that you? Where's Bessy?"

"She is in bed, but quite recovered."

"Quite recovered--I recollect. I say, Tom, ain't she a fine creature?
God bless her. Well, she owes me nothing now, at all events. I think I
should like to get up, Tom. I wonder whether I smashed my old pipe on
the shingle? Just look into my wet jacket. I say, Tom, were they all
saved?"

"No," I replied; "Fisher and Harrison were both drowned."

"Poor fellows! I wish they had been spared. Fisher has seven
children--and Harrison, he has a wife, I think."

"Yes, and two children, father."

"Poor woman! God's will be done! He giveth and He taketh away! Tom, I
must get up and see Bessy."

I assisted Bramble to dress, and as soon as he had put on his clothes he
went to Bessy's room. I stayed at the door. "You may come in, Tom; she's
muffled up in her blankets, and fast asleep."

"Quite fast," said Mrs. Maddox; "she has slept more than an hour. Dear
heart, it will do her good."

Bramble kissed Bessy's pale forehead, but it did not waken her. "Look,
Tom," said Bramble, "look at that smooth, clear skin--those pretty
features. Look at the delicate creature! and would you have thought that
she would have dared what no man dared to do--that she would have defied
those elements raging in their might, and have snatched their prey from
their very grasp? Did I ever imagine, when I brought her as a helpless
baby on shore, that she would ever have repaid the debt with such
interest, or that such a weak instrument should have been chosen by the
Lord to save one who otherwise must have perished? But His ways are not
our ways, and He works as He thinks fit. Bless you, bless you, my
Bessy--and may your fond heart never be again put to such trial! Is she
not beautiful, Tom? just like a piece of cold marble. Thank Heaven, she
is not dead, but sleepeth!"

I certainly never did look upon Bessy with so much interest; there was
something so beautifully calm in her countenance as she lay there like
an effigy on a tomb, hardly appearing to breathe; and when I thought of
the courage and devotion shown but a few hours before by the present
almost inanimate form, I bent over her with admiration, and felt as if I
could kneel before the beautiful shrine which contained such an
energetic and noble spirit. While this was passing through my mind,
Bramble had knelt by the bedside, and was evidently in prayer. When he
rose up he said, "Come away, Tom: she is a maiden, and may feel ashamed
if she awaken and find us men standing by her bedside. Let me know when
she wakes up, Mrs. Maddox, and tell her I have been in to see her; and
now, Tom, let's go down. I never felt the want of a pipe so much as I do
now."

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

     A Scene in the Hospital, and a strange Discovery.

In a very few days Bramble and Bessy were sufficiently recovered to
resume their usual avocations; but the former expressed no willingness
to embark again, and Bessy's persuasions assisted to retain him at the
cottage. With me it was different. I was still restless, and anxious for
change; my feelings toward Bessy were those of admiration and esteem,
but not yet of love. Yet I could not help recalling to mind the words of
Bramble, "Observe how she performs those duties which fall to her lot;
if she is a good daughter she will make a good wife." I felt that she
would make a good wife, and I wished that I could have torn from my
bosom the remembrance of Janet, and have substituted the form of Bessy
in her place. We had been at the cottage nearly a week, when I received
a letter from Anderson; he informed me that he had visited old Nanny,
who had made her will in due form, and confided to him, and that he
thought she was more inclined to listen to him than she had before been;
that my father and mother and sister were well, and that Spicer had been
obliged to go into the hospital with an abscess in his knee, occasioned
by running something into it, and that it was reported that he was very
ill, and, in all probability, amputation must take place. I felt
convinced that Spicer must have, in his hasty retreat, fallen over the
iron railings which lay on the ground, and which had, as I mentioned,
tripped me up; but with this difference, that, as the spikes of the
railing were from me, and consequently I met with little injury, they
must have been toward him, and had penetrated his knee, and thus it was
that he had received the injury. Anderson also stated that they were
very busy at the hospital, receiving the men who had been maimed in the
glorious battle of Trafalgar. Altogether, I made up my mind that I would
take the first ship that was offered for pilotage up the river, that I
might know more of what was going on; and, as we sat down to supper, I
mentioned my intentions to Bramble.

"All's right. Tom, you're young, and ought to be moving; but just now I
intend to take a spell on shore. I have promised Bessy, and how can I
refuse her anything, dear girl? I don't mean to say that I shall never
pilot a vessel again, but I do feel that I am not so young as I was, and
this last affair has shaken me not a little, that's the truth of it.
There's a time for all things, and when a man has enough he ought to be
content, and not venture more. Besides, I can't bear to make Bessy
unhappy; so, you see, I've half promised--only half, Bessy, you know."

"I think you would have done right if you had promised altogether,"
replied I; "you have plenty to live upon, and are now getting a little
in years. Why should you not stay on shore, and leave them to work who
want the money?"

Bessy's eyes beamed gratefully toward me, as I thus assisted her wishes.
"You hear, father," said she, fondling him, "Tom agrees with me."

"Ah!" replied Bramble, with a sigh, "if--but we cannot have all we wish
in this world."

Bessy and I both felt what he would have referred to, and we were
silent. She cast down her eyes, and appeared busy with her fork,
although she was eating nothing. I no longer felt the repugnance that I
had a short time before, and I was in deep reverie, watching the changes
of her beautiful countenance, when she looked up. Our eyes met: she must
have read my thoughts in mine, for from that moment each hour increased
our intimacy and confidence. We were no longer afraid of each other.

A day or two after this conversation an opportunity was given to me of
going up the river, which I did not neglect; and having delivered up
charge of the ship, I hastened down to Greenwich. I found everything in
_statu quo_ at my mother's house, and Virginia much pleased at there
being no lodgers. Anderson I met walking with Ben the Whaler and my
father. He told me that Spicer had refused to have his leg amputated,
when the surgeon had pointed out the necessity of the operation; and
that it was now said that it was too late to have the operation
performed, and that there was little or no chance of his recovery. They
asked me many questions relative to the narrow escape of Bramble, and
the behavior of Bessy.

As soon as I could get away, I set off to the hospital to see Spicer;
for, as the reader must be aware, I had many reasons for having
communication with him--not that I expected that at first he would
acknowledge anything. I knew that his heart was hardened, and that he
had no idea of his danger; but I had his secret--he was indeed in my
power, and I hoped by terrifying him to obtain the information which I
wished.

I found him in bed, in the corner of the hospital ward, to the left. He
was looking very pale, and apparently was in great pain.

"Spicer," said I, "I have come to see you; I am sorry to hear of your
accident. How is your leg? is it better?"

"No, not much," replied he, writhing, "I am in great pain; another man
would scream out with agony, but I'm like the wolf--I'll die without
complaint."

"But you don't think that you're going to die, Spicer?"

"No, Jack, I don't think that; I never have thought that, when I have
been worse than now. I'll never believe that I'm dead until I find
myself so. It must come some time or another, but I'm hale and hearty in
constitution as yet, and my time is not yet come."

"It was the iron railings which you fell over, was it not? I fell over
them myself the same night when I landed, on the Monday, going up to old
Nanny's."

"Who told you it was those cursed spikes? Well, well, so it was; but not
on the Monday, Jack, it was on the Wednesday."

"Nay, that cannot be; for on the Tuesday, as I went down to the beach, I
saw them all fixed up in the stonework, and soldered in. It must have
been on the Monday--the night on which old Nanny was nearly smothered by
some one who went in to rob her. I came there just in time to save her
life; indeed, if you recollect, you were lame the next day, when I met
you in the hospital."

"Well, Jack, you may think what you please; but I tell you it was on the
Wednesday."

"Then you must have fallen over something else."

"Perhaps I did."

"Well, it's of no consequence. I'm glad to find that you're so much
better, for I was told that the doctor had said--"

"What did the doctor say?" interrupted Spicer.

"Why, it's better to tell the truth; he said it was impossible for you
to get over it; that the inflammation was too great to allow of
amputation now, and that it must end in mortification."

"He said that!" said Spicer, wildly, raising himself on his elbow.

"Yes, he did; and it's known all over the hospital."

"Well," replied Spicer, "he may have said so; but I think I ought to
know best how I feel. He'll be here in half an hour or so, and then I'll
put the question to him. I'm a little tired, Jack, so don't speak to me
any more just now."

"Shall I go away, Spicer?"

"No, no, stay here. There's a book or two; read them till I feel a
little stronger."

That my communication had had an effect upon Spicer was evident. He was
startled at the idea of the near approach of death, which he had not
contemplated. Alas! who is not? He shut his eyes, and I watched him; the
perspiration trickled down his forehead. I took up the book he had
pointed out to me; it was the History of the Buccaneers, with plates,
and I thought then that it was a parallel of Spicer's own career. I
looked at the plates, for I was not much inclined to read. In a few
minutes Spicer opened his eyes. "I am better now, Jack; the faintness
has passed away. What book is that? Oh, the Buccaneers. That and
Dampier's Voyages were the only two books of my father's library that I
ever thought worth reading. Have you ever read it?"

"No," replied I, "I never have. Will you lend it to me?"

"Yes; I'll give it to you, Jack, if you like."

"Thank you. Was your father a sailor, Spicer, as well as you?"

"Yes, Jack; a sailor, every inch of him."

"Did you ever sail with him?"

"No, he died about the time that I was born." Here the doctor, who was
going round the wards, came up to Spicer and asked him how he felt.
"Pretty well, doctor," said he.

"Come, we must look at your leg, my man; it will require dressing. Is it
very painful?"

"Why, yes, sir; it has been very painful indeed all night."

The hospital mates unbandaged Spicer's leg, and took off the poultices,
and I was horrified when I saw the state which his leg was in: one mass
of ulceration from the middle of the thigh down to half-way below his
knee, and his ankle and foot swelled twice their size, a similar
inflammation extending up to his hip. The doctor compressed his lips and
looked very grave. He removed some pieces of flesh, it was then cleaned
and fresh poultices put on.

"Doctor," said Spicer, who had watched his countenance, "they say in the
hospital that you have stated that I cannot live. Now, I should wish to
know your opinion myself on this subject, as I believe I am the most
interested party."

"Why, my man," said the doctor, "you certainly are in great danger, and
if you have any affairs to settle, perhaps it will be prudent so to do."

"That's a quiet way of saying there is no hope for me; is it not,
doctor?" replied Spicer.

"I fear, my good man, there is very little."

"Tell me plainly, sir, if you please," replied Spicer; "is there _any_?"

"I am afraid that there is not, my good man; it's unpleasant to say so,
but perhaps it is kindness to tell the truth."

"Well, sir, that is honest. May I ask you how long I may expect to
live?"

"That will depend upon when the mortification takes place, about three
days; after that, my poor fellow, you will probably be no more. Would
you like the chaplain to come and see you?"

"Thank you, sir; when I do, I'll send for him."

The doctor and the attendants went away to the other patients. I was
silent. At last Spicer spoke.

"Well, Jack, you were right; so it is all over with me. Somehow or
another, although I bore up against it, I had an inkling of it myself,
the pain has been so dreadful. Well, we can die but once, and I shall
die game."

"Spicer," said I, "that you will die without fear I know very well; but
still, you know that you should not die without feeling sorry for the
sins you have committed, and praying for pardon. We have all of us, the
very best of us, to make our peace with Heaven; so, had I not better
tell the chaplain to come and talk with you?"

"No, Jack, no; I want no parsons praying by my side. What's done is
done, and can't be undone. Go now, Jack, I wish to get a little sleep."

"Shall I come and see you to-morrow, Spicer?"

"Yes, come when you will; I like to have some one to talk to; it keeps
me from thinking."

I wished him good day, and went away with the book in my hand. Before I
went home I sought out old Anderson and told him what had passed. "He
will not see the chaplain, Anderson, but perhaps he will see you; and,
by degrees, you can bring him to the subject. It is dreadful that a man
should die in that way."

"Alas for the pride of us wretched worms!" ejaculated Anderson; "he
talks of dying game--that is to say, he defies his Maker. Yes, Jack, I
will go and see him; and happy I am that he has a few days to live. I
will see him to-night, but will not say much to him, or he might refuse
my coming again."

I went home. I was not in a very gay humor, for the sight of Spicer's
leg, and the announcement of his situation, had made a deep impression
upon me. I sat down to read the book which Spicer had made me a present
of. I was interrupted by my mother requesting me to go a message for
her, and during my absence Virginia had taken up the book.

"Who lent you this book, Tom?" said she, when I returned.

"Spicer, the man whom they call Black Sam, who is now dying in the
hospital."

"Well, that's not the name on the title-page--it is Walter James,
Tynemouth."

"Walter James, did you say, dear? Let me look! Even so."

"Why, what's the matter, Tom?" said my sister; "you look as if you were
puzzled."

And indeed I do not doubt but I did, for it at once recalled to my mind
that old Nanny's married name was _James_, and that Spicer had said that
his father was a sailor, and that he had died at the time that he was
born, which agreed with the narrative of old Nanny. The conclusions
which I came to in a moment made me shudder.

"Well, my dear, I was surprised, if not frightened; but you don't know
why, nor can I tell you, for it's not my secret. Let me look at the book
again."

Here my father came in, and the conversation took a different turn,
which I was not sorry for. I wished, however, to be left to my own
reflections; so I soon afterward took up my candle and retired to my
room.

I turned the subject over in my mind in a hundred ways, but could not
come to any conclusion as to the best method of proceeding. At last I
thought I would see Peter Anderson the next day, and take his advice. I
was out immediately after breakfast; but I could not find Anderson, so I
walked to the hospital to see Spicer. I found Anderson sitting by his
bedside, but they were not then conversing. After a short time Anderson
rose, and giving a slight shake of the head, as if to inform me that he
had had no success, he walked away.

"He has been trying to convert me," said Spicer, with a grim smile.

"He has been trying, Spicer, to bring you to a sense of your condition;
and is he not kind? he can have no interest but your own good. Do you
think that no one knows the sins you have committed except
yourself?--there is one eye which sees all."

"Come, Jack, no preaching."

"Spicer, you are here under a false name, and you think no one knows
anything about you; but everything has been discovered by me; and I
cannot help thinking that it has been made known providentially, and for
your good."

"Ah!" replied Spicer, "and pray what do you know? Perhaps you can tell
me all the sins I have committed."

"No, Spicer, but perhaps I can tell you of sins which you yourself are
not aware of. But first answer me--you know that you cannot live long,
Spicer; will you acknowledge that what I state is correct, should it
really be so?"

"I give you my word that if you tell me anything about me which is
true, I will freely acknowledge it; so now, Mr. Fortuneteller, here's my
hand--it may be useful, you know, in helping your discovery."

"I do not want your hand, Spicer--now hear me. Is not your name
James?--and were you not born at Tynemouth?"

Spicer started. "How did you find that out? Well, Tom, it is so, and
what then?"

"As you told me yourself, although I knew it before, your father was
lost at sea about the time that you were born. Spicer, I know how you
left your mother, and how you returned from _you know where_--how you
robbed her of every farthing, and left her again destitute and in
misery. Is there nothing to repent of in that, Spicer?"

"Who the devil--"

"Nay, Spicer, the devil has had nothing to do with the discovery."

"Strange, strange indeed," muttered Spicer; "but still, it is true."

"Spicer, you know best how your life was passed from that time until you
came into the hospital; but it was to be hoped that when laid up to rest
in this haven, after such a stormy life, you would have amended your
life; but what have you done?"

"And what have I done?"

"What would have brought you to the gallows if I had not held my tongue.
You attempted to murder the old woman to obtain her money, and, in
escaping, you received the wound which soon will bring you to your
grave."

"What proofs?"

"Every proof: your stump struck me in the face when you rushed out--the
button was off your coat the next morning when I met you--I had every
proof, and, had I chosen, would have sworn on the Bible to your having
been the party."

"Well, I'll not deny it--why should I, when I cannot be taken out of
this bed to be tried, even if you wished? Have you more to say?"

"Yes, more."

"I doubt it."

"Then hear me. The poor woman whom you would have murdered, whom I found
at her last gasp, and with difficulty restored to consciousness, that
poor woman, Spicer, is _your own mother!_"

"God of heaven!" exclaimed he, covering his face.

"Yes, Spicer, your fond, indulgent mother, who thinks that you suffered
the penalty of the law many years ago, and whose energies have been
crushed by the supposed unhappy fate of her still loved and lamented
son. Spicer, this is all true, and have you now nothing to repent of?"

"I thought her dead, long dead. God, I thank Thee that I did not the
deed; and, Jack, I am really grateful to you for having prevented it.
Poor old woman!--yes, she did love me, and how cruelly I treated
her!--and she is then still alive, and thinks that I was hanged--yes, I
recollect now, she must think so. Oh! my brain, my brain!"

"Spicer, I must leave you now."

"Don't leave me, Jack--yes, do--come to-morrow morning."

"Spicer, will you do me a favor?"

"Yes."

"Will you see Anderson, and talk with him?"

"Yes, if you wish it; but not now. This evening I will, if he'll come."

I left Spicer, well satisfied with what had passed, and hastened to
Anderson, to communicate it to him.

"A strange and providential discovery, Tom, indeed," said he, "and good
use it appears to me you have made of it. His heart is softened, that is
evident. I will certainly go to him this evening."

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

     Spicer discloses strange Matters.

The next day, when I called to see Spicer, I found him in great pain.
Anderson had been with him, but he had been in such agony that he found
it almost impossible to converse with him. Spicer did not like that I
should leave him, although he could not talk, and I therefore remained
by his bedside, occasionally assisting him to move from one position to
another, or to take the drink that was by his bedside. Toward the
evening he became more easy, and went to sleep. I left him, therefore,
till the next day. As I supposed, the mortification had commenced, for
the doctor told him so the next morning, when he visited him, and the
chaplain pointed out to him that all hopes of living were now over.
Spicer heard the communication unmoved. He asked the doctor how long he
might live, and his reply was, it was possible four or five days, and
that he would feel no more pain. He was now able to listen to Anderson,
and he did so. I shall not trouble the reader with repeating what
Anderson imparted to me, as I can give him an idea of Spicer's feelings
by what passed between us.

"Tom," said he, "I have led a very wicked life, so wicked that I hate
to think of it, and I hate myself. I believe all that Anderson and the
chaplain tell me, and I find that I may hope and do hope for mercy; but
I can't cry, or wail, or tear my hair. The fact is, Tom, I can't feel
afraid. If I am pardoned, and I do scarcely expect it, I shall be all
gratitude, as well I may. Should I be condemned, I shall acknowledge my
punishment just, and not complain, for I have deserved all; but I cannot
feel fear. I believe I ought; but it is not in my nature, I suppose."

"But you do not feel anything like defiance, Spicer?"

"No, God forbid! no, nothing like that, but my spirit cannot quail."

He was very anxious for the chaplain the last two days of his life, and
I really believe was _sincere_ in his repentance; but before I wind up
his history, I will narrate to the reader those portions of his life
which are unknown, and which are necessary to the explanation of other
matters.

He told me that when he first went to sea he had joined a vessel
employed in the slave trade, that he had left it at Gambia, and shipped
on board of a vessel which was about to cruise on the Spanish Main. He
was some time in her, and had been appointed second officer, when he
resolved to fit out a vessel and cruise for himself. He had therefore
quitted the vessel at Surinam, and worked his passage home in a sugar
ship.

It was on his return home this time that, as old Nanny had told me, he
had taken to gaming, and eventually had robbed his mother. With the two
thousand pounds in his pocket, he had repaired to Liverpool, where he
fell in with Fitzgerald, a young man who had served as first mate in the
vessel in which they had cruised on the Spanish Main, and to him he had
proposed to join him as first officer in the vessel which he was about
to fit out. It appeared that this young man had but a few days returned
from Ireland, where he had married a young woman, to whom he had been
some time attached, and that his disinclination to leave his young wife
made him at first refuse the offer made by Spicer. Spicer, however, who
was aware of his value, would not lose sight of him, and contrived, when
Fitzgerald had taken too much wine, to win of him, by unfair means,
about one thousand five hundred pounds. Spicer then offered Fitzgerald a
release from the debt, provided he would sail with him; and he exacted
as a further condition that he should not return and take a farewell of
his wife. To these harsh terms Fitzgerald, being without means of
liquidating the debt, consented, and they sailed accordingly.

"And now, Jack, I will tell you why I was so curious about that
spy-glass. I knew the moment that I saw it in your hands that it was one
that belonged to Fitzgerald when we were on our first cruise together.
It was the best glass I ever met with. When we left Liverpool this time,
I asked him for the spy-glass, and he told me that, expecting to return
to his wife before he sailed, he had left it at home. How it came into
the lady's hands I can't tell."

"I never said that Lady Hercules gave it to me," replied I; "although I
did not undeceive you when you thought so. The fact is, it was given me
by a very pretty young Irish widow."

"Then, Jack, I should not wonder if she was the wife of Fitzgerald, whom
I have been talking about; but that I leave to you. Let me finish my
story. When we arrived on the Spanish coast I had as fine a crew with me
as ever were on board of a vessel; but I had long made up my mind that I
would hoist the black flag. Yes, Jack, it is but too true. But when I
proposed it, Fitzgerald declared that the first act of piracy that was
committed he would leave the vessel. I tried all I could to persuade
him, but in vain. However, we did take an English vessel, and plundered
her. Upon this Fitzgerald protested, and half the crew, at least, joined
him. I threatened the men to shoot them through the head; but they were
resolute; and, being rather the stronger party, I dared not make any
attempt. They insisted upon leaving the vessel; and I, not being able to
help it, landed them all in the Bay of Honduras, where I thought it very
possible they would be taken by the Spaniards and imprisoned, if not
hanged. They were imprisoned; but, after some time, they were released.
The desertion of Fitzgerald and the other men left me with my vessel
half manned; and I vowed vengeance against him if ever I had an
opportunity. I now cruised as a pirate, and was very successful, and my
name was a terror to those seas. A high reward was offered for me, dead
or alive, which pleased me much, and I became more murderous than ever.
Jack, all this rises up in judgment against me now; and I recollect
every single life taken away by me, or by my orders, as well as if I had
noted them down in a book. May God forgive me!" continued Spicer,
covering his eyes up for a time.

After a pause he continued: "I had ordered a vessel with a valuable
cargo to be taken on to a rendezvous we had in the Caicos; but it was
recaptured and taken into Port Royal, Jamaica. As the proofs of the
piracy were well established, the men on board were thrown into prison
to take their trial. I heard of this, for I was often on shore in
disguise in one island or another, and a scheme entered my head which I
thought would benefit myself and wreak my vengeance upon Fitzgerald. But
I must leave off now. Here comes the chaplain; he promised to talk with
me this evening, and you see that I have changed my opinion on that
point, praised be God for it. Good-night, Jack; come to-morrow."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

     Spicer's Death.

When I saw Spicer again he continued his narrative:

"I told you that I was anxious to wreak my vengeance upon Fitzgerald,
and the plan which I hit upon was as follows: I contrived to get to Port
Royal, and to speak to the two men whom I had been on the best of terms
with. I told them that the only chance of escape would be for them to
give their names as those of _James_, which was mine, and of
_Fitzgerald_, the first officer; and I explained to them why; because
Fitzgerald and I had saved the life of the daughter of one of the chief
planters, who, in gratitude, had promised that he would assist us if we
were ever in difficulty. I told them that they must adhere to what they
said, as they would be condemned with the others, but that a reprieve
would be given when they were on the scaffold."

"But why should you have done this?" inquired I.

"First, because I wished people to believe that I was dead, that there
might not be so great a hue and cry after me, and the temptation of so
high a reward; next, because I knew that Fitzgerald was still in prison,
and that his wife would read the account of his execution in the
newspapers, which I hoped would break her heart, and so make him
miserable."

"Oh, Spicer, that was too cruel."

"It was, but my plan succeeded. The men gave our names, went to the
scaffold expecting a reprieve, and were hanged."

"And thus it is that your poor mother thinks even now that you were
hanged," said I.

"Even so, Jack, even so. Well, after a time I quitted my vessel and
returned to England; for I was actually tired of bloodshed, and I had
collected a great deal of money. On my arrival I inquired after
Fitzgerald. It appeared that his wife had heard the account of his
execution; and, as her bonnet was found by the side of the mill-dam, it
was supposed that she had destroyed herself. Fitzgerald returned home,
and was distracted at the intelligence. I have always thought that she
was dead; but, by what you say, Jack, I now doubt it."

"And Fitzgerald, Spicer, what became of him?"

"I really cannot tell. I heard that he had entered on board of a King's
ship, but not under his own name. How far that was true or not I cannot
say; but I have every reason to believe that such was the case."

"And how came you on board of a man-of-war?"

"Why, that's soon told, I spent my money, or lost it all in gambling,
went out again, obtained command of a vessel, and did well for some
time; but I was more tyrannical and absolute than ever. I had shot five
or six of my own men, when the crew mutinied, and put me and two others
who had always supported me in an open boat, and left us to our fate. We
were picked up by a frigate going to the East Indies when we were in the
last extremity. And now, Jack, I believe you have my whole history. I am
tired now, and must go to sleep; but, Jack, I wish you to come to-morrow
morning, for I have something to say to you of great importance.
Good-by, Jack; don't forget."

I promised Spicer that I would not fail, and quitted the hospital. When
I called again upon him, I found him very low and weak; he could not
raise himself from his pillow. "I feel that I am going now, Jack," said
he--"going very fast--I have not many hours to live; but, I thank
Heaven, I am not in any pain. A man who dies in agony cannot examine
himself--cannot survey the past with calmness or feel convinced of the
greatness of his offenses. I thank God for that; but, Jack, although I
have committed many a foul and execrable murder, for which I am full of
remorse--although I feel how detestable has been my life--I tell you
candidly that, although those crimes may appear to others more heavy