IN WHICH THE READER IS UNCEREMONIOUSLY TRANSPORTED TO ANOTHER ELEMENT IN
COMPANY WITH ETHELSTON; THE LATTER IS LEFT IN A DISAGREEABLE PREDICAMENT.
It is time that we should now turn our attention to Ethelston, who
is much too important a personage in our narrative to be so long
neglected, and respecting whose safety Lucy began to feel the jealous
anxiety of love; for The Pride of Ohio had been long expected in
Marietta, and several French frigates and corvettes were reported
to be cruising among the West Indian Islands, actively engaged in
revenging upon American commerce the loss which they had sustained in
The Insurgente. We shall soon see that Lucy’s alarm was not altogether
groundless, and that her lover’s prolonged absence was not without
sufficient cause. About a month preceding the occurrences detailed in
the last chapter, Ethelston, having landed his merchandise in safety
at Port Royal, and having taken on board a small cargo of sugar and
coffee, prepared to return to New Orleans. He had heard of the French
men–of–war cruising in the neighbourhood, and prudently resolved to
risk as little as possible on this trip: he took therefore securities
for a great portion of the amount due to him, which he left in the
charge of the vessel’s consignees, and conveyed on board only a
sufficient cargo to put The Pride of Ohio in perfect sailing trim,
and to give her a fair chance of escape in case she were chased by
an enemy. His little brig was well rigged and manned, and he felt
confident that few, if any, of the French cruisers would match her for
speed. His mate, or sailing–master, was Gregson, a hardy weather–beaten
old sailor, who had served on board of every kind of craft, from a
man–of–war to a fishing–cobble, and knew every headland, reef, and
current in that dangerous sea, as well as a Liverpool pilot knows the
banks and shoals in the mouth of the Mersey. The Pride of Ohio mounted
three guns; two eighteen–pound carronades, and one long nine–pounder:
ten stout fellows and a black cook completed her complement: the
last–mentioned person deserves special notice, as he was a character
strangely formed by the alternations of fortune which he had seen.
A native of the interior of western Africa, he had in early life
been chosen, on account of his extraordinary strength and courage,
a chief of the Lucumi tribe, to which he belonged; but having been
unfortunately made a prisoner, he was taken down to the coast and
sold to a slaver: thence he had been conveyed to some of the Spanish
Islands, and afterwards to Virginia, where he had come into possession
of Colonel Brandon, who finding him possessed of many good qualities,
and of a sagacity very rare among his countrymen, had offered him his
liberty when he moved to Ohio; but Cupid (for so was the negro called)
had grown so much attached to his master, that he begged to be allowed
to remain in his service, and, from one employment to another, had now
become cook and steward on board The Pride of Ohio. In frame he was
Herculean; and though he rarely exerted his strength, he had shown on
various occasions that it was nearly if not quite equal to that of any
other two men in the vessel. He spoke but little, and was sullen and
reserved in his manners; but as he never disobeyed orders, and never
was guilty of aggression or violence, Cupid was, upon the whole, a
favourite with the crew.
To Ethelston he was invaluable; for he was always at his post, was
scrupulously honest with respect to money or stores placed under his
charge, and on more than one occasion his shrewdness and readiness had
surprised his young commander. The captain (for so was Ethelston called
on board) always treated Cupid kindly, and never allowed him to be made
the subject of those jeers and insults to which free negroes in the
States are usually exposed. On this account the cook, who never forgot
that he _had_ been a warrior, entertained towards him the warmest
feelings of attachment and gratitude.
How or where he had obtained the name he bore, none seemed to know; and
Ethelston remembered having heard that when first he came into Colonel
Brandon’s possession, and was asked his name, he had sullenly replied,
“The name I once had is at home: a slave has neither name nor home!” A
terrible gash across his forehead and left cheek (received, probably,
in the war when he was captured,) had disfigured a countenance that had
been originally expressive of haughtiness and determination, and had,
perhaps, led the slave–dealer to bestow upon him in irony the name by
which he was now called.
The Pride of Ohio had made good two days of her homeward passage,
when, in endeavouring to round a point on the southern coast of Cuba,
Ethelston descried a ship some miles to windward, and a–head, which
a careful examination through his glass convinced him was a French
frigate. His mate being below at the time, he sent for him on deck,
anxious to see whether the experienced sailor’s observation would
confirm his opinion. As soon as he appeared, handing him the glass, he
said, “Gregson, see what you make of that fellow on our larboard bow.”
“Make of her!” said the mate; “the devil take him that made her, and
him that brought her athwart us, say I, captain! She’s a Frenchman; and
though we can’t well see her hull yet, I doubt it won’t be long before
we see her row of teeth.”
“I thought so myself,” said Ethelston. “We must hold our course steady;
and if we can round the point, we may then bear away, and show her a
pair of heels. Turn the hands up, Gregson; trim the sails, and stand
by for a run. Put Harrison at the helm; he can keep her a point nearer
than that youngster.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” was the reply; and having executed the order, he
returned to Ethelston, who was still sweeping the southern horizon
with his glass, and examining the strange ship, whose hull was now
distinctly visible.
The young man’s countenance wore a grave expression, as, returning the
glass to his mate, he said, “Gregson, it is, as we supposed, a French
frigate. We may, perhaps, creep along under the shore without his
noticing our small craft.”
The old seaman riveted the glass upon the stranger, as if he wished to
count every sail and plank. During the examination, he grunted two or
three inarticulate ejaculations, in unison with which his hard features
underwent various contortions; and his young commander waited with no
little impatience for what he called his “overhauling.”
“She’s neither more nor less than that infernal Epervier, commanded by
L’Estrange. She’s one of the fastest sailers in their navy; and as for
our creeping past her without being seen, he’s the wrong sort o’ man
for that fun: herring or whale, all’s fish for his net!”
“I have often heard of him,” said Ethelston: “they say he’s a fine
fellow.”
“That he is, to give the devil his due, as jolly an old dog as ever
lived, and much too good a seaman for a mounseer. Look’ee there,
captain,” added he, after another squint through the glass; “he’s
altering his course already—two or three points free, and the reefs
shaken out o’ the tops’ls. We shall hear from him soon.”
“Can we give him the slip by bearing up for the eastern passage?—We
should then show him our tail; and a stern chase is a long one.”
“We might try if you wish it, captain; but it blows fresh, and she
won’t be very fond of this lee shore. I think, if you allow me to
advise, we’d better hug it; take the chance of a long shot in rounding
that headland, and then run for the inner channel behind the Isle of
Pines. He’ll not be after following us there; or, if he does, the
frigate’s keel will chance to scrape acquaintance with a reef.”
“You are right, Gregson,” said Ethelston. “The Pride may fetch that
point on this tack. Keep a close luff, Harrison.”
“Luff it is, sir,” was the reply, as Ethelston went below to consult
his chart, and to prepare himself for entering the intricate channel
between the Isle de Pinos and the main island.
The gallant little brig well sustained her high character as a sailer,
and dashed her bows fearlessly through the foaming waves, under a press
of canvasss such as few vessels of her tonnage could have borne. The
breeze was freshening, and the frigate now shaped her course with the
evident intention of cutting off the chase from rounding the headland
before mentioned.
The men on board the brig were now clustered forward, anxiously
debating the probable issue; while Cupid steamed away in his caboose,
preparing the dinner as quietly as if there had been no frigate to
windward, nor a rock–bound shore to leeward; but though he seemed thus
busied in his usual avocations, he cast every now and then his dark eye
upon The Epervier; and few on board could estimate better than himself
the danger of their situation.
Ethelston, having finished a careful examination of his chart, now came
on deck, and a single glance sufficed to show him that he could not
round the point a–head without coming within range of the frigate’s
guns: but the brig had kept her offing, and he had little doubt of her
making good her escape, unless she were crippled by a shot from the
enemy.
The Epervier now hoisted her colours for the brig to heave–to; and
that being disregarded, she fired a shot, which fell short of her
bows. Finding that no notice was taken of this, L’Estrange ordered his
first lieutenant to fire at the saucy brig in good earnest, to bring
her to her senses. Fortunately for the latter, there was a short angry
sea running, and the distance being considerable, the first shot did
not take effect. Several of the hands on board the brig had served in
men–of–war; these were now oracles among their messmates, and they
looked with some anxiety at their young captain, curious to see how he
would behave under fire, for they believed he had never smelt powder:
and although strict and firm in his command, he was usually so gentle
and quiet in his manner, that they considered him rather a studious
than a fighting character. Their curiosity was not, however, much
gratified; for Ethelston, without appearing to notice the frigate, kept
his eye steadfastly fixed upon the cape a–head; and, after a brief
silence, he said, “Gregson, there is a strong current which sets in
shore here, The Pride cannot weather that point on this tack.”
“You are right, sir,” said the mate; “L’Estrange has got his bristles
up, he is nearing us every minute, and if we carry on this course, in
another half–hour, both will go ashore.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the young captain, the colour rising in his cheek, as a
sudden thought flashed across him. “If we could ensure that both would
go to pieces among those breakers, it would be a glorious death for the
little brig to die!”
He spoke these words in an under tone, and rather musing to himself
than addressing his officer. The latter, however, overheard them, and
looked at him with an astonishment which he could not repress; for he
also knew as little as the crew of the determined courage that reposed
under the calm and quiet demeanour of his young commander. Again a
wreath of smoke issued from the bows of the frigate, and a round shot
passed through the rigging of the chase, doing fortunately no material
damage, but proving that they were now within easy range.
“I fear it will not do, sir,” said the mate, in reply to Ethelston’s
last words; “she can pepper away at us, and yet make her offing good.”
“Then there remains but one chance for us,” said the captain; “answer
her signal, show your colours, ‘bout ship, and stand for the frigate.”
The mate was, if possible, more surprised at this order than he had
been before at the proposal to try and cast both vessels ashore; but
he was too good a seaman to hesitate or to ask any questions; and in a
few minutes the gallant little brig had answered the signal, and was
standing out towards the frigate on the starboard tack.
We will now transport the reader for a few minutes on board The
Epervier, and make him acquainted with the captain, into whose
clutches the poor little brig seemed destined to fall. L’Estrange was
a fine–looking, middle–aged man, who had spent the greater part of
his life at sea, and had married, when very young, a Spanish creole,
whose beauty was her only dower; he had several children by this
marriage, the eldest of whom was now a lieutenant on board his ship;
the remainder of the family resided at Point à Pitre, in Guadaloupe,
for the captain was in truth rather of the “ancien régime;” he loved
his country, but he hated the Directory and other fruits of the French
revolution; so that he never went to Europe, and would have been but
rarely employed, had he not been known to be one of the most skilful
and experienced officers in the French navy. Such was the man who now
stood on the frigate’s quarter–deck; and after examining The Pride
again through his glass, turned to his first lieutenant and desired
him to cease firing. “That obstinate trader,” added he, “seemed very
anxious to escape, and thought but little of the risk she ran of going
ashore, or of being riddled by our shot!”
“She’s one of those saucy Americans,” said the lieutenant, “that think
nothing afloat can match ‘em; however, she’s made a mistake this time;
and I hope, sir, when she’s overhauled, she’ll prove worth the trouble
she’s given.”
The frigate, by this time, finding herself too close in on a lee shore,
hauled to the wind; and, disliking the broken and rugged appearance
of the coast, determined not to lie–to for the brig until she had
made sufficient offing. This was precisely the calculation that
Ethelston had made; and he now paced his deck with a calm and satisfied
countenance; whilst his men, grouped on the forecastle, were quite
at a loss to discover his intentions: the mate, however, was clearer
sighted, and could not withhold his admiration from the decision and
boldness of a manœuvre, the success of which must soon be tested.
The captain of the frigate went below to dinner, having given orders
to the lieutenant to stand out on the same tack for another half–hour,
then to lie–to, until the brig should come alongside.
Meantime, Ethelston, who had kept his eye fixed upon the headland so
often mentioned, muttering to himself, “she will fetch it now,” desired
the man at the helm to yaw the brig about, to throw her up now and then
in the wind, so as to fall astern of the frigate as much as possible,
yet not apparently varying the course. Having done so as long as he
judged it practicable without awakening the enemy’s suspicion, he saw,
to his inexpressible delight, the frigate shorten sail to enable him to
come up; instantly seizing this advantage, he ordered his mate to put
the brig about, and run for the Isle of Pines. It may well be imagined
that this bold manœuvre was not many moments unperceived on board the
frigate; and L’Estrange’s astonishment was great, when, from the noise
overhead, and from the heeling of the ship, he found that her course
was being altered. Springing on deck, he saw that he had been outwitted
by the saucy brig, which was crowding all sail, and seemed not unlikely
to effect her escape. The old captain chafed, and stormed, and swore
that the obstinate little trader should pay dearly for her insolence.
The Epervier was a fast sailer, and, as she now dashed the spray from
her bows under a press of canvass, it was soon evident that the brig
could not yet round the point without coming within range of her guns.
Ethelston’s mind was now made up; and finding his men cheerful and
inspirited by the success of his manœuvre, he yet hoped to bring his
vessel into the intricate channel behind the island, where the frigate
would not venture to follow: it was not long before she again saluted
him; and one of the shot passing through the brig’s bulwarks, close to
him, shivered the binnacle into a hundred pieces. Observing symptoms of
uneasiness in the man at the helm, and that he swerved from the course,
Ethelston gave him a stern reproof, and again desired Harrison to come
to the helm. The frigate, which still held the weather–gage, seemed
now resolved to cut off the brig from the headland, and to sink her if
she attempted to weather it. Ethelston saw his full danger, and was
prepared to meet it; had he commanded a vessel of war, however small,
he would not have shrunk from the responsibility he was about to incur;
but, remembering that his little brig was but a trader, and that the
crew ought not to be exposed, without their own consent, to danger so
imminent as that before them, he desired Gregson to call them aft, when
he addressed them as follows:
“My lads,—you see the scrape we are in: if we can round that point, we
may yet escape; but to do so, we must run within a few hundred yards
of the frigate’s broadside. What say you, my lads, shall we strike, or
stand the chance?—a French prison, or hurrah for the Belise?”
“Hurrah for the Belise,” shouted the men, animated by their young
commander’s words, and by his fearless bearing; so the little brig held
on her way.
A few minutes proved that he had neither magnified nor underrated the
danger: his chart gave him deep water round the headland; and he now
ordered Harrison to keep her away, and let her run close in shore,
thereby increasing her speed, and the distance from the enemy.
The surprise and wrath of L’Estrange, at the impudent daring of a
craft which he now perceived to be really nothing but an insignificant
trader, are not to be described. He bore up after her, and having
desired the men to stand to their guns, generously determined to give
the saucy chase one more chance; but finding his repeated signal for
her to heave–to, disregarded, he reluctantly gave the order to fire.
Fortunately for The Pride, the sea was running high, and naval gunnery
had not then reached the perfection which it has since attained; and
though her rigging was cut up from stem to stern, and her fore–topmast
was shot away, and though she received several shot in her hull,
she still answered her helm, and gallantly rounding the point, ran
in shore, and was in a few minutes among shoals which, to her light
draught, were not dangerous, but where it would have been madness in
the frigate to follow.