Produced by Al Haines
For Love of Country
_A Story of Land and Sea in the Days of the Revolution_
BY
CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY
AUTHOR OF "THE GRIP OF HONOR," "FOR THE FREEDOM OF THE SEA," ETC.
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1908
Copyright, 1898,
BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
_All rights reserved._
TO THE
Society of the Sons of the Revolution,
_And those kindred organizations whose chief function is to
cultivate a spirit of patriotism and love of country
in the present by recalling the struggles and
sacrifices of the past._
PREFACE
Since the action of this story falls during the periods, and the book
deals with personages and incidents, which are usually treated of in
the more serious pages of history, it is proper that some brief word of
explanation should be written by which I might confirm some of the
romantic happenings hereafter related, which to the casual reader may
appear to draw too heavily upon his credulity for acceptance.
The action between the Randolph and the Yarmouth really happened, the
smaller ship did engage the greater for the indicated purpose, much as
I have told it; and if I have ventured to substitute another name for
that of the gallant sailor and daring hero, Captain Nicholas Biddle,
who commanded the little Randolph, and lost his life, on that occasion,
I trust this paragraph may be considered as making ample amends. The
remarkable fight between those two ships is worthy of more extended
notice than has hitherto been given it, in any but the larger tones
(and not even in some of those) of the time. As far as my information
permits me to say, there never was a more heroic battle on the seas.
Again, it is evident to students of history that the character of
Washington has not been properly understood hitherto, by the very
people who revere his name, though the excellent books of Messrs. Ford,
Wilson, Lodge, Fiske, and others are doing much to destroy the popular
canonization which made of the man a saint; in defence of my
characterization of him I am able to say that the incidents and
anecdotes and most of the conversations in which he appears are
absolutely historical.
If I have dwelt too long and too circumstantially upon the Trenton and
Princeton campaigns for a book so light in character as is this one, it
may be set down to an ardent admiration for Washington as man and
soldier, and a design again to exhibit him as he was at one of the most
critical and brilliant points of his career. Furthermore, I find that
the school and other histories commonly accessible to ordinary people
are not sufficiently awake to the importance and brilliancy of the
campaign, and I cherish the hope that this book may serve, in some
measure, to establish its value.
I have freely used all the histories and narratives to which I had
access, without hesitation; and if I have anticipated a distinguished
arrival, or hastened the departure of a ship, or altered the date of a
naval battle, or changed its scene, I plead the example of the
distinguished masters of fiction, to warrant me.
In closing I cannot refrain from thanking those who have so kindly
assisted me with advice and correction during the writing of this story
and the reading of the proof, especially the Rev. A. J. P. McClure.
C. T. B.
PHILADELPHIA, PENNA.,
_November_, 1897.
Contents
Book I
THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT
CHAPTER
I KATHARINE YIELDS HER INDEPENDENCE
II THE COUNTRY FIRST OF ALL
III COLONEL WILTON
IV LORD DUNMORE'S MEN PAY AN EVENING CALL
V A TIMELY INTERFERENCE
VI A FAITHFUL SUBJECT OF HIS MAJESTY
VII THE LOYAL TALBOTS
VIII AN UNTOLD STORY
IX BENTLEY'S PRAYER
X A SOLDIER'S EPITAPH
Book II
KNIGHTS ERRANT OF THE SEA
XI CAPTAIN JOHN PAUL JONES
XII AN IMPORTANT COMMISSION
XIII A CLEVER STRATAGEM
XIV A SURPRISE FOR THE JUNO
XV CHASED BY A FRIGATE
XVI 'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY
XVII AN INCIDENTAL PASSAGE AT ARMS
XVIII DUTY WINS THE GAME
Book III
THE LION AT BAY
XIX THE PORT OF PHILADELPHIA
XX A WINTER CAMP
XXI THE BOATSWAIN TELLS THE STORY
XXII WASHINGTON--A MAN WITH HUMAN PASSIONS
XXIII LIEUTENANT MARTIN'S LESSON
XXIV CROSSING THE DELAWARE
XXV TRENTON--THE LION STRIKES
XXVI MY LORD CORNWALLIS
XXVII THE LION TURNS FOX
XXVIII THE BRITISH PLAY "TAPS"
XXIX THE LAST OF THE TALBOTS
Book IV
A DEATH GRAPPLE ON THE DEEP
XXX A SAILOR'S OPINION OF THE LAND
XXXI SEYMOUR'S DESPERATE RESOLUTION
XXXII THE PRISONERS ON THE YARMOUTH
XXXIII TWO PROPOSALS
XXXIV CAPTAIN VINCENT MYSTIFIED
XXXV BENTLEY SAYS GOOD-BY
XXXVI THE LAST OF THE RANDOLPH
XXXVII FOR LOVE OF COUNTRY
XXXVIII PHILIP DISOBEYS ORDERS
XXXIX THREE PICTURES OF THE SEA.
Book V
THE DEAD ALIVE AGAIN
XL A FINAL APPEAL
XLI INTO THE HAVEN AT LAST
BOOK I
THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT
For Love of Country
CHAPTER I
_Katharine Yields her Independence_
If Seymour could have voiced his thought, he would have said that the
earth itself did not afford a fairer picture than that which lay within
the level radius of his vision, and which had imprinted itself so
powerfully upon his impressionable and youthful heart. It was not the
scenery of Virginia either, the landscape on the Potomac, of which he
would have spoken so enthusiastically, though even that were a thing
not to be disdained by such a lover of the beautiful as Seymour had
shown himself to be,--the dry brown hills rising in swelling slopes
from the edge of the wide quiet river; the bare and leafless trees upon
their crests, now scarce veiling the comfortable old white house, which
in the summer they quite concealed beneath their masses of foliage; and
all the world lying dreamy and calm and still, in the motionless haze
of one of those rare seasons in November which so suggests departed
days that men name it summer again. For all that he then saw in nature
was but a setting for a woman; even the sun itself, low in the west,
robbed of its glory, and faded into a dull red ball seeking to hide its
head, but served to throw into high relief the noble and beautiful face
of the girl upon whom he gazed,--the girl who was sun and life and
light and world for him.
The most confirmed misogynist would have found it difficult to
challenge her claim to beauty; and yet it would require a more severe
critic or a sterner analyst than a lover would be likely to prove, to
say in just what point could be found that which would justify the
claim. Was it in the mass of light wavy brown hair, springing from a
low point on her forehead and gently rippling back, which she wore
plaited and tied with a ribbon and destitute of powder? How sweetly
simple it looked to him after the bepowdered and betowered misses of
the town with whom he was most acquainted! Was it in the broad low
brow, or the brown, almost black eyes which laughed beneath it; or the
very fair complexion, which seemed to him a strangely delightful and
unusual combination? Or was it in the perfection of a faultless, if
somewhat slender and still undeveloped figure, half concealed by the
vivid "Cardinal" cloak she wore, which one little hand held loosely
together about her, while the other dabbled in the water by her side?
Be this as it may, the whole impression she produced was one which
charmed and fascinated to the last degree, and Mistress Katharine
Wilton's sway among the young men of the colony was-well-nigh
undisputed. A toast and a belle in half Virginia, Seymour was not the
first, nor was he destined to be the last, of her adorers.
The strong, steady, practised stroke, denoting the accomplished
oarsman, with which he had urged the little boat through the water, had
given way to an idle and purposeless drift. He longed to cast himself
down before the little feet, in their smart high-heeled buckled shoes
and clocked stockings, which peeped out at him from under her
embroidered camlet petticoat in such a maliciously coquettish manner;
he longed to kneel down there in the skiff, at the imminent risk of
spoiling his own gay attire, and declare the passion which consumed
him; but something--he did not know what it was, and she did not tell
him--constrained him, and he sat still, and felt himself as far away as
if she had been in the stars.
In his way he was quite as good to look at as the young maiden; tall,
blond, stalwart, blue-eyed, pleasant-featured, with the frank engaging
air which seems to belong to those who go down to the sea in ships,
Lieutenant John Seymour Seymour was an excellent specimen of that
hardy, daring, gallant class of men who in this war and in the next
were to shed such imperishable lustre upon American arms by their
exploits in the naval service. Born of an old and distinguished
Philadelphia family, so proud of its name that in his instance they had
doubled it, the usual bluntness and roughness of the sea were tempered
by this gentle birth and breeding, and by frequent attrition with men
and women of the politest society of the largest and most important
city of the colonies. Offering his services as soon as the news of
Lexington precipitated the conflict with the mother country, he had
already made his name known among that gallant band of seamen among
whom Jones, Biddle, Dale, and Conyngham were pre-eminent.
The delicious silence which he had been unwilling to break, since it
permitted him to gaze undisturbed upon his fair shipmate, was
terminated at last by that lady herself.
She looked up from the water with which she had been playing, and then
appearing to notice for the first time his steady ardent gaze, she
laughed lightly and said,--
"Well, sir, it grows late. When you have finished contemplating the
scenery, perhaps you will turn the boat, and take me home; then you can
feast your eyes upon something more attractive."
"And what is that, pray?" he asked.
"Your supper, sir. You must be very anxious for it by this time, and
really you know you look quite hungry. We have been out so long; but I
will have pity on you, and detain you no longer here. Turn the boat
around, Lieutenant Seymour, and put me on shore at once. I will stand
between no man and his dinner."
"Hungry? Yes, I am, but not for dinner,--for you, Mistress Katharine,"
he replied.
"Oh, what a horrid appetite! I don't feel safe in the boat with you.
Are you very hungry?"
"Really, Miss Wilton, I am not jesting at all," he said with immense
dignity.
"Oh! oh! He is in earnest. Shall I scream? No use; we are a mile
from the house, at least."
"Oh, Miss Wilton--Katharine," he replied desperately, "I am devoured by
my--"
"Lieutenant Seymour!" She drew herself up with great hauteur, letting
the cloak drop about her waist.
"Madam!"
"Only my friends call me Katharine."
"And am I not, may I not be, one of your friends?"
"Well, yes--I suppose so; but you are so young."
"I am just twenty-seven, madam, and you, I suppose, are--"
"Never be ungallant enough to suppose a young lady's age. You may do
those things in Philadelphia, if you like, but 't is not the custom
here. Besides, I mean too young a friend; you have not known me long
enough, that is."
"Long enough! I have known you ever since Tuesday of last week."
"And this is Friday,--just ten days, ten long days!" she replied
triumphantly.
"Long days!" he cried. "Very short ones, for me."
"Long or short, sir, do you think you can know me in that period? Is
it possible I am so easily fathomed?" she went on, smiling.
Now it is ill making love in a rowboat at best, and when one is in
earnest and the other jests it is well-nigh impossible; so to these
remarks Lieutenant Seymour made no further answer, save viciously to
ply the oars and drive the boat rapidly toward the landing.
Miss Katharine gazed vacantly about the familiar river upon whose banks
she had been born and bred, and, finally noticing the sun had gone
down, closing the short day, she once more drew her cloak closely about
her and resumed the neglected conversation.
"Won't you please stop looking at me in that manner, and won't you
please row harder, or is your strength all centred in your gaze?"
"I am rowing as fast as I can, Miss Wilton, especially with this--"
"Oh, I forgot your wounded shoulder! Does it hurt? Does it pain you?
I am so sorry. Let me row."
"Thank you, no. I think I can manage it myself. The only pain I have
is when you are unkind to me."
At that moment, to his great annoyance, his oar stuck fast in the
oar-lock, and he straightway did that very unsailorly thing known as
catching a crab.
Katharine Wilton laughed. There was music in her voice, but this time
it did not awaken a responsive chord in the young man. Extricating his
oar violently, he silently resumed his work.
"Do you like crabs, Mr. Seymour?" she said with apparent irrelevance.
"I don't like catching them, Miss Wilton," he admitted ruefully.
"Oh, I mean eating them! We were talking about your appetite, were we
not? Well, Dinah devils them deliciously. I 'll have some done for
you," she continued with suspicious innocence.
Seymour groaned in spirit at her perversity, and for the first time in
his life felt an intense sympathy with devilled crabs; but he continued
his labor in silence and with great dignity.
"What am I to infer from your silence on this important subject, sir?
The subject of edibles, which everybody says is of the first
importance--to men--does not appear to interest you at all!"
He made no further reply.
The young girl gazed at his pale face at first in much amusement; but
the laughter gradually died away, and finally her glance fell to the
water by her side. A few strong strokes, strong enough, in spite of a
wounded shoulder, to indicate wrathful purpose and sudden determination
to the astute maiden, and the little boat swung in beside the wharf.
Throwing the oars inboard with easy skill, Seymour sat motionless while
the boat glided swiftly down toward the landing-steps, and the silence
was broken only by the soft, delicious lip, lip, lip of the water,
which seemed to cling to and caress the bow of the skiff until it
finally came to rest. The man waited until the girl looked up at him.
She saw in his resolute mien the outward and visible sign of his inward
determination, and she realized that the game so bravely and piquantly
played since she met him was lost. They had nearly arrived at the
foregone conclusion.
"Well, Mr. Seymour," she said finally, "we are here at last; for what
are you waiting?"
"Waiting for you."
"For me?"
"Ay, only for you."
"I--I--do not understand you."
"You understand nothing apparently, but I will explain." He stepped
out on the landing-stage, and after taking a turn or two with the
painter to secure the boat, he turned toward his captive with a
ceremonious bow.
"Permit me to help you ashore."
"Oh, thank you, Lieutenant Seymour; if I only could, in this little
boat, I would courtesy in return for that effort," she answered with
tremulous and transparent bravery. But when the little palm met his
own brown one, it seemed to steal away some of the bitterness of the
moment. After he had assisted her upon the shore and up the steps into
the boathouse, he held her hand tight within his own, and with that
promptitude which characterized him he made the plunge.
"Oh, Miss Wilton--Katharine--it is true I have known you only a little
while, but all that time--ever since I saw you, in fact, and even
before, when your father showed me your picture--I have loved you.
Nay, hear me out." There was an unusual sternness in his voice. My
lord appeared to be in the imperative mood,--something to which she had
not been accustomed. He meant to be heard, and with beating heart
perforce she listened. "Quiet that spirit of mockery but a moment, and
attend my words, I pray you. No, I will not release you until I have
spoken. These are troublous times. I may leave at any moment--must
leave when my orders come, and I expect them every day, and before I go
I must tell you this."
Her downcast eyes could still see him blush and then pale a little
under the sunburn and windburn of his face, as he went on speaking.
"I have no one; never had I a sister, I can remember no mother; believe
me, I entreat you, when I tell you that to no woman have I ever said
what I have just said to you. We sailors think and speak and act
quickly, it is a part of our profession; but if I should wait for years
I should think no differently and act in no other way. I love you!
Oh, Katharine, I love you as my soul."
There was a note of passion in his voice which thrilled her heart with
ecstasy; the others had not made love this way.
"You seem to me like that star I have often watched in the long hours
of the night, which has shown me the way on many a trackless sea. I
know I am as far beneath you as I am beneath that star. But though the
distance is great, my love can bridge it, if you will let me try.
Katharine--won't you answer me, Katharine? Is there nothing you can
say to me? 'Dost thou love me, Kate?'" he quoted softly, taking her
other hand. How very fair, but how very far away she looked! The
color came and went in her cheek. He could see her breast rise and
fall under the mad beating of a heart which had escaped her control,
though hitherto she had found no difficulty in keeping it well in hand.
There was a novelty, a difference, in the situation this time, a new
and unexpected element in the event. She hesitated. Why was it no
merry quip came to the lips usually so ready with repartee? Alas, she
must answer.
"I--I--oh, Mr. Seymour," she said softly and slowly, with a downcast
face she fain would hide, he fain would see. "I--yes," she murmured
with great reluctance; "that is--I think so. You see, when you
defended father, in the fight with the brig, you know, and got that
bullet in your shoulder you earned a title to my gratitude, my--"
"I don't want a title to your gratitude," he interrupted. "I want your
love, I want you to love me for myself alone."
"And do you think you are worthy that I should?" she replied with a
shadow of her former archness.
He gravely bent his head and kissed her hand. "No, Katharine, I do
not. I can lay no claim to your hand, if it is to be a reward of
merit, but I love you so--that is the substance of my hope."
"Oh, Mr. Seymour, Mr. Seymour, you overvalue me. If you do that with
all your possessions, you will be-- Oh, what have I said?" she cried
in sudden alarm, as he took her in his arms.
"My possessions! Katharine, may I then count you so? Oh, Kate, my
lovely Kate--" It was over, and over as she would have it; why
struggle any longer? The landing was a lonely little spot under the
summer-house, at the end of the wharf; no one could see what happened.
This time it was not her hand he kissed. The day died away in
twilight, but for those two a new day began.
The army might starve and die, battles be lost or won, dynasties rise
and fall, kingdoms wax and wane, causes tremble in the balances,--what
of that? They looked at each other and forgot the world.
CHAPTER II
_The Country First of All_
"Oh, what is the hour, Mr.--John? Shall I call you Seymour? That is
your second name, is it not? But what would people say? I-- No, no,
not again; we really must go in. See! I am not dressed for the
evening yet. Supper will be ready. Now, Lieutenant Seymour, you must
let me go. What will my father think of us? Come, then. Your hand,
sir."
The hill from the boat-landing was steep, but Mistress Kate had often
run like a young deer to the top of it without appreciating its
difficulties as she did that evening. On every stepping-stone, each
steep ascent, she lingered, in spite of her expressed desire for haste,
and each time his strong and steady arm was at her service. She tasted
to the full and for the first time the sweets of loving dependence.
As for him, an admiral of the fleet after a victory could not have been
prouder and happier. As any other man would have done, he embraced or
improved the opportunity afforded him by their journey up the hill, to
urge the old commonplace that he would so assist her up the hill of
life! And so on. The iterations of love never grow stale to a lover,
and the saying was not so trite to her that it failed to give her the
little thrill of loving joy which seemed, for the moment at least, to
tame her restless spirit, that spirit of subtle yet merry mockery which
charmed yet drove him mad. She was so unwontedly quiet and subdued
that he stopped at the brow of the hill, and said, half in alarm,
"Katharine, why so silent?"
She looked at him gravely; a new light, not of laughter, in her brown
eyes, saying in answer to his unspoken thought: "I was thinking of what
you said about your orders. Oh, if they should come to-day, and you
should go away on your ship and be shot at again and perhaps wounded,
what should I do?"
"Nonsense, Katharine dear, I am not going to be wounded any more. I
've something to live for now, you see," he replied, smiling, taking
both of her hands in his own.
"You always had something to live for, even before--you had me."
"And what was that, pray?"
"Your country."
"Yes," he replied proudly, taking off his laced hat, "and liberty; but
you go together in my heart now, Kate,--you and country."
"Don't say that, John--well, Seymour, then--say 'country and you.' I
would give you up for that, but only for that."
"You would do well, Katharine; our country first. Since we have
engaged in this war, we must succeed. I fancy that more depends, and I
only agree with your father there, upon the issue of this war than men
dream of, and that the battle of liberty for the future man is being
fought right here and now. Unless our people are willing to sacrifice
everything, we cannot maintain that glorious independence which has
been so brilliantly declared." He said this with all the boldness of
the Declaration itself; but she, being yet a woman, asked him
wistfully,--
"Would you give me up, sacrifice me for country, then?"
"Not for the whole wide--" She laid a finger upon his lips.
"Hush, hush! Do not even speak treason to the creed. I am a daughter
of Virginia. My father, my brother, my friends, my people, and, yes, I
will say it, my lover are perilling their lives and have engaged their
honor in this contest for the independence of these colonies, for the
cause of this people, and the safeguarding of their liberties; and if I
stood in the pathway of liberty for a single instant, I should despise
the man who would not sweep me aside without a moment's hesitation."
She spoke with a pride and spirit which equalled his own, her head high
in the air, and her eyes flashing.
She had released her hands and had suited the gesture to the word,
throwing out her hand and arm with a movement of splendid freedom and
defiance. She was a woman of many moods and "infinite variety." Each
moment showed him something new to love. He caught the outstretched
hand,--the loose sleeve had fallen back from the wrist,--he pressed his
lips to the white arm, and said with all his soul in his voice,--
"May God prevent me from ever facing the necessity of a choice like
that, Katharine! But indeed it is spirit like yours which makes men
believe the cause is not wholly desperate. When our women can so speak
and feel, we may confidently expect the blessing of God upon our
efforts."
"Father says that it is because General Washington knows the spirit of
the people, because he feels that even the youths and maidens, the
little children, cherish this feeling, he takes heart, and is confident
of ultimate success. I heard him say that no king could stand against
a united people."
"Would that you could have been in Paris with your father when he
pleaded with King Louis and his ministers for aid and recognition! We
might have returned with a better answer than paltry money and a few
thousand stand of arms, which are only promised, after all."
"Would that I were a man instead of being a weak, feeble woman!" she
exclaimed vehemently.
"Ah, but I very much prefer you as you are, Katharine, and 't is not
little that you can do. You can inspire men with your own patriotism,
if you will. There, for instance, is your friend Talbot. If you could
persuade him, with his wealth and position and influence in this
country, to join the army in New Jersey--" As she shook her head, he
continued:
"I am sure if he thought as I do of you, you could persuade him to
anything but treachery or dishonor." His calm smile of superiority
vanished in an expression of dismay at her reply,--
"Talbot! Hilary Talbot! Why, John, do you know that he is--well, they
say that he is in love with me. Everybody expects that we shall marry
some day. Do you see? These old estates join, and--"
"Kate, it is n't true, is it? You don't care for him, do you?" he
interrupted in sudden alarm.
"Care for him? Why, of course I care for him. I have known him ever
since I was a child; but I don't love him. Besides, he stays at home
while others are in the field. Silly boy, would I have let you kiss me
in the summer-house if it were so? No, sir! We are not such fine
ladies as your friends in the city of Philadelphia, perhaps, we
Virginia country girls upon whom your misses look with scorn, but no
man kisses us, and no man kisses me, upon the lips except the one
I--that I must--let me see--is the word 'obey'? Shall you make me obey
you all the time, John?"
"Pshaw, Katharine, you never obey anybody,--so your father says, at
least,--and if you will only love me, that will be sufficient."
"Love you!"--the night had fallen and no one was near--"love you,
John!" She kissed him bravely upon the lips. "Once, that's for me, my
own; twice, that's for my country; there is all my heart. Come, sir,
we must go in. There are lights in the house."
"Ah, Katharine, and there is light in my heart too."
As they came up the steps of the high pillared porch which completely
covered the face of the building, they were met, at the great door
which gave entrance to the spacious hallway extending through the
house, by a stately and gracious, if somewhat elderly gentleman.
There was a striking similarity, if not in facial appearance, at least
in the erect carriage and free air, between him and the young girl who,
disregarding his outstretched hand and totally disorganizing his
ceremonious bow, threw her arms about his neck and kissed him with
unwonted warmth, much to his dismay and yet not altogether to his
displeasure. Perhaps he suspected something from the bright and happy
faces of the two young people; but if so, he made no comment, merely
telling them that supper had been waiting this long time, and bidding
them hasten their preparation for the meal.
Katharine, followed by Chloe, her black maid, who had been waiting for
her, hastily ran up the stairs to her own apartments, upon this signal,
but turned upon the topmost stair and waved a kiss to the two gentlemen
who were watching her,--one with the dim eyes of an old father, the
other with the bright eyes of a young lover.
"Colonel Wilton," exclaimed Seymour, impulsively, "I have something to
say to you,--something I must say."
"Not now, my young friend," replied the colonel, genially. "Supper
will be served, nay, is served already, and only awaits you and
Katharine; afterward we shall have the whole evening, and you may say
what you will."
"Oh, but, colonel--"
"Nay, sir, do not lay upon me the unpleasant duty of commanding a
guest, when it is my privilege as host to entreat. Go, Mr. Seymour,
and make you ready. Katharine will return in a moment, and it does not
beseem gentlemen, much less officers, to keep a lady waiting, you know.
Philip and Bentley have gone fishing, and I am informed they will not
return until late. We will not wait for them."
"As you wish, sir, but I must have some private conversation with you
as soon as possible."
"After supper, my boy, after supper."
CHAPTER III
_Colonel Wilton._
Left to himself for a moment, the colonel heaved a deep sigh; he had a
premonition of what was coming, and then paced slowly up and down the
long hall.
He was attired, with all the splendor of an age in which the subject of
dress engrossed the attention of the wisest and best, in the height of
the prevailing mode, which his recent arrival from Paris, then as now
the mould of fashion, permitted him to determine. The soft light from
the wax candles in their sconces in the hall fell upon his thickly
powdered wig, ran in little ripples up and down the length of his
polished dress-sword, and sparkled in the brilliants in the buckles of
his shoes. His face was the grave face of a man accustomed from of old
not only to command, but to assume the responsibility of his orders;
when they were carried out, his manner was a happy mixture of the
haughty sternness of a soldier and the complacent suavity of the
courtier, tempered both by the spirit of frankness and geniality born
of the free life of a Virginia planter in colonial times.
In his early youth he had been a soldier under Admiral Vernon, with his
old and long-deceased friend Lawrence Washington at Cartagena; later
on, he had served under Wolfe at Quebec. A visitor, and a welcome one
too, at half the courts of Europe, he looked the man of affairs he was;
in spite of his advanced age, he held himself as erect, and carried
himself as proudly as he had done on the Heights of Abraham or in the
court of St. Germain.
Too old to incur the hardships of the field, Colonel Wilton had yet
offered his services, with the ardor of the youngest patriot, to his
country, and pledged his fortune, by no means inconsiderable, in its
support. The Congress, glad to avail themselves of the services of so
distinguished a man, had sent him, in company with Silas Deane and
Benjamin Franklin, as an embassy to the court of King Louis, bearing
proposals for an alliance and with a request for assistance during the
deadly struggle of the colonies with the hereditary foe of France.
They had been reasonably successful in a portion of their attempt, at
least; as the French government had agreed, though secretly, to furnish
arms and other munitions of war through a pseudo-mercantile firm which
was represented by M. de Beaumarchais, the gifted author of the comedy
"Le Mariage de Figaro." The French had also agreed to furnish a
limited amount of money; but, more important than all these, there were
hints and indications that if the American army could win any decisive
battle or maintain the unequal conflict for any length of time, an open
and closer alliance would be made. The envoys had despatched Colonel
Wilton, from their number, back to America to make a report of the
progress of their negotiations to Congress. This had been done, and
General Washington had been informed of the situation.
The little ship, one of the gallant vessels of the nascent American
navy, in which Colonel Wilton had returned from France, had attacked
and captured a British brig of war during the return passage, and young
Seymour, who was the first lieutenant of the ship, was severely
wounded. The wound had been received through his efforts to protect
Colonel Wilton, who had incautiously joined the boarding-party which
had captured the brig. After the interview with Congress, Colonel
Wilton was requested to await further instructions before returning to
France, and, pending the result of the deliberations of Congress, after
a brief visit to the headquarters of his old friend and neighbor
General Washington, he had retired to his estate. As a special favor,
he was permitted to bring with him the wounded lieutenant, in order
that he might recuperate and recover from his wound in the pleasant
valleys of Virginia. That Seymour was willing to leave his own friends
in Philadelphia, with all their care and attention, was due entirely to
his desire to meet Miss Katharine Wilton, of whose beauty he had heard,
and whose portrait indeed, in her father's possession, which he had
seen before on the voyage, had borne out her reputation. Seymour had
been informed since his stay at the Wiltons' that he had been detached
from the brig Argus, and notified that he was to receive orders shortly
to report to the ship Ranger, commanded by a certain Captain John Paul
Jones; and he knew that he might expect his sailing orders at any
moment. He had improved, as has been seen, the days of his brief stay
to recover from one wound and receive another, and, as might have been
expected, he had fallen violently in love with Katharine Wilton.
There were also staying at the house, besides the servants and slaves,
young Philip Wilton, Katharine's brother, a lad of sixteen, who had
just received a midshipman's warrant, and was to accompany Seymour when
he joined the Ranger, then outfitting at Philadelphia; and Bentley, an
old and veteran sailor, a boatswain's mate, who had accompanied Seymour
from ship to ship ever since the lieutenant was a midshipman,--a man
who had but one home, the sea; one hate, the English; one love, his
country; and one attachment, Seymour.
Colonel Wilton was a widower. As Katharine came down the stairway,
clad in all the finery her father had brought back for her from Paris,
her hair rolled high and powdered, the old family diamonds with their
quaint setting of silver sparkling upon her snowy neck, her fan
languidly waving in her hand, she looked strikingly like a pictured
woman smiling down at them from over the mantel; but to the sweetness
and archness of her mother's laughing face were added some of the
colonel's pride, determination, and courage. He stepped to meet her,
and then bent and kissed the hand she extended toward him, with all the
grace of the old régime; and Seymour coming upon them was entranced
with the picture.
He too had changed his attire, and now was clad in the becoming dress
of a naval lieutenant of the period. He wore a sword, of course, and a
dark blue uniform coat relieved with red facings, with a single epaulet
on his shoulder which denoted his official rank; his blond hair was
lightly touched with powder, and tied, after the fashion of active
service, in a queue with a black ribbon.
"Now, Seymour, since you two truants have come at last, will you do me
the honor to hand Miss Wilton to the dining-room?" remarked the
colonel, straightening up.
With a low bow, Seymour approached the object of his adoration, who,
after a sweeping courtesy, gave him her hand. With much state and
ceremony, preceded by one of the servants, who had been waiting in
attention in the hall, and followed by the colonel, and lastly by the
colonel's man, a stiff old campaigner who had been with him many years,
they entered the dining-room, which opened from the rear of the hall.
The table was a mass of splendid plate, which sparkled under the soft
light of the wax candles in candelabra about the room or on the table,
and the simple meal was served with all the elegance and precision
which were habitual with the gentleman of as fine a school as Colonel
Wilton.
At the table, instead of the light and airy talk which might have been
expected in the situation, the conversation assumed that grave and
serious tone which denoted the imminence of the emergency.
The American troops had been severely defeated at Long Island in the
summer, and since that time had suffered a series of reverses, being
forced steadily back out of New York, after losing Fort Washington, and
down through the Jerseys, relentlessly pursued by Howe and Cornwallis.
Washington was now making his way slowly to the west bank of the
Delaware. He was losing men at every step, some by desertion, more by
the expiration of the terms of their enlistment. The news which
Colonel Wilton had brought threw a frail hope over the situation, but
ruin stared them in the face, and unless something decisive was soon
accomplished, the game would be lost.
"Did you have a pleasant ride up the river, Katharine?" asked her
father.
"Very, sir," she answered, blushing violently and looking involuntarily
at Seymour, who matched her blush with his own.
There was a painful pause, which Seymour broke, coming to the rescue
with a counter question.
"Did you notice that small sloop creeping up under the west bank of the
river, colonel, this evening? I should think she must be opposite the
house now, if the wind has held."
"Why, when did you see her, Mr. Seymour? I thought you were looking
at--at--" She broke off in confusion, under her father's searching
gaze. He smiled, and said,--
"Ah, Katharine, trained eyes see all things unusual about them,
although they are apparently bent persistently upon one spot. Yes,
Seymour, I did notice it; if we were farther down the river, we might
suspect it of being an enemy, but up here I fancy even Dunmore's
malevolence would scarcely dare to follow."
Katharine looked up in alarm. "Oh, father, do you think it is quite
safe? Chloe told me that Phoebus told her that the raiders had visited
Major Lithcomb's plantation, and you know that is not more than fifty
miles down the river from us. Would it not be well to take some
precaution?"
"Tut, tut, child! gossip of the negro servants!" The colonel waved it
aside carelessly. "I hardly think we have anything to fear at present;
though what his lordship may do in the end, unless he is checked, I
hardly like to imagine."
"But, father," persisted Katharine, "they said that Johnson was in
command of the party, and you know he hates you. You remember he said
he would get even with you if it cost him his life, when you had him
turned out of the club at Williamsburg."
"Pshaw, Katharine, the wretch would not dare. It is a cowardly
blackguard, Seymour, whom I saw cheating at cards at the Assembly Club
at the capital. I had him expelled from the society of gentlemen,
where, indeed, he had no right of admittance, and I scarcely know how
he got there originally. He made some threats against me, to which I
naturally paid no attention. But what did you think of the vessel?"
"I confess I saw nothing suspicious about her, sir," replied Seymour.
"She seemed very much like the packets which ply on the river; I only
spoke idly of the subject."
"But, father, the packet went up last week, the day before you came
back, and is due coming down the river now, while this boat is coming
up," said Katharine.
"Oh, well, I think we are safe enough now; but, to relieve your unusual
anxiety, I will send Blodgett down to the wharf to examine and
report.--Blodgett, do you go down to the boat-landing and keep watch
for an hour or two. Take your musket, man; there is no knowing what
you might need it for."
The old soldier, who had stationed himself behind the colonel's chair,
saluted with military precision, and left the room, saying, "Very good,
sir; I shall let nothing escape my notice, sir."
"Now, Katharine, I hope you are satisfied."
"Yes, father; but if it is the raiders, Blodgett won't be able to stop
them."
"The raiders," laughed the colonel; and pinching his daughter's ear, he
said, "I suspect the only raiders we shall see here will be those who
have designs upon your heart, my bonny Kate,--eh, Seymour?"
"They would never dare to wear a British uniform in that case, father,"
she retorted proudly.
"Well, Seymour, I hear, through an express from Congress to-day, that
Captain Jones has been ordered to command the Ranger, and that the new
flag--we will drink to it, if you please; yes, you too, Katharine; God
bless every star and stripe in it--will soon be seen on the ocean."
"It will be a rare sight there, sir," said Seymour; "but it will not be
long before the exploits of the Ranger will make it known on the high
seas, if rumor does not belie her captain."
"I trust so; but do you know this Captain Jones?"
"Not at all, sir, save by reputation; but I am told he has one
requisite for a successful officer."
"And what is that?"
"He will fight anything, at any time, or at any place, no matter what
the odds."
Colonel Wilton smiled. "Ah, well, if it were not for men of that kind,
our little navy would never have a chance."
"No, father, nor the army, either; if we waited for equality before
fighting, I am afraid we should wait forever."
"True, Katharine. By the way, have you seen Talbot to-day?"
"No, father."
"I wish that we might enlist his services in the cause. I don't think
there is much doubt about Talbot himself, is there?"
"No. It is his mother, you know; she is a loyalist to the core. As
were her ancestors, so is she."
The colonel nodded gently; he had a soft spot in his heart for the
subject of their discussion. "With her teaching and training, I can
well understand it, Katharine. Proud, of high birth, descended from
the 'loyal Talbots,' and the widow of one of them, she cannot bear the
thought of rebellion against the king. I don't think she cares much
for the people, or their liberties either."
"Yes, father; with her the creed is, the king can do no wrong."
"Ah, well," said the colonel, reflectively, "I thought so too once, and
many is the blow I have struck for this same king. But liberty is
above royalty, independence not a dweller in the court; so, in my old
age, I find myself on a different side." He sipped his wine
thoughtfully a moment, and continued,--
"Madam Talbot has certainly striven to restrain the boy, and
successfully so far. He is a splendid fellow; I wish we had him. He
would be of great service to the cause, with his name and influence,
and the money he would bring; and then the quality of the young man
himself would be of value to us. You have met him, Seymour, I believe?"
"Yes, sir, several times; and I agree with you entirely. It is his
mother who keeps him back. I have had one or two conversations with
her. She is a Tory through and through."
"Not a doubt of it, not a doubt of it," said the colonel. "Katharine,
can't you do something with him?"
"Oh, father, you know that I have talked with him, pleaded with him,
and begged him to follow his inclination; but he remains by his mother."
"Nonsense, Katharine! Don't speak of him in that way; give him time.
It is a hard thing: he is her only son; she is a widow. Let us hope
that something will induce him to come over to us." He said this in
gentle reproof of his spirited daughter; and then,--
"Permit me to offer you a glass of wine, Seymour,--you are not drinking
anything; and to whom shall we drink?"
Seymour, who had been quaffing deep draughts of Katharine's beauty,
replied promptly,--
"If I might suggest, sir, I should say Mistress Wilton."
"No, no," said Katharine. "Drink, first of all, to the success of our
cause. I will give you a toast, gentlemen: Before our sweethearts, our
sisters, our wives, our mothers, let us place--our country," she
exclaimed, lifting her own glass.
The colonel laughed as he drank his toast, saying, "Nothing comes
before country with Katharine."
And Seymour, while he appreciated the spirit of the maiden, felt a
little pang of grief that even to a country he should be second,--an
astonishing change from that spirit of humility which a moment since
contented itself with metaphorically kissing the ground she walked upon.
"By the way, father, where is Philip?" asked Katharine.
"He went up the branch fishing, with Bentley, I believe."
"But is n't it time they returned? Do you know, I feel nervous about
them; suppose those raiders--"
"Pshaw, child! Still harping on the raiders? and nervous too! What
ails you, daughter? I thought you never were nervous. We Wiltons are
not accustomed to nervousness, you know, and what must our guest think?"
"Nothing but what is altogether agreeable," replied Seymour, a little
too promptly; and then, to cover his confusion, he continued: "But I
think Miss Wilton need feel under no apprehension. Master Philip is
with Bentley, and I would trust the prudence and courage and skill of
that man in any situation. You know my father, who was a shipmaster,
when he died aboard his ship in the China seas, gave me, a little boy
taking a cruise with him, into Bentley's charge, and told him to make a
sailor and a man of me, and from that day he has never left me. At my
house, in Philadelphia, he is a privileged character. There never was
a truer, better, braver man; and as for patriotism, love of country is
a passion with him, colonel. He might set an example to many in higher
station in that particular."
"Yes, I have noticed that peculiarity about the man. I think Philip is
safe enough with him, Katharine, even if those-- Ha! what is that?"
The colonel sprang to his feet, as the sound of a musket-shot rang out
in the night air, followed by one or two pistol-shots and then a
muffled cry.
CHAPTER IV
_Lord Dunmore's Men Pay an Evening Call_
"Oh, father, it must be the raiders! That was Blodgett's voice," cried
Katharine, looking very pale and clasping her hands.
"Let me go and investigate, colonel," said Seymour, leaping to his feet
and seizing his sword.
"Do so, Seymour," cried the colonel, as the sailor hastily left the
room. "Phoebus," to the butler, "go tell Caesar to call the slaves to
the house. You, Scipio," to one of the footmen, "go open the
arm-chest. Katharine, reach me my sword. See that the doors are
closed, Billy," said the colonel to the other servant, rapidly and with
perfect coolness. "I think, Katharine, that perhaps you would better
retire to your room;" but even as he spoke the sound of hurried
footsteps and excited voices outside was heard. After a few moments
one of the field-hands, followed by Seymour, burst panting into the
room, his mouth working with excitement and his eyes almost starting
from his head.
"Well, sir, what is it?" said the colonel.
"Foh de Lawd's sake, suh, dey'se a-comin', suh, dey'se a-comin'.
Dey'se right behin' me; dey'll be heah in a minute, suh."
"Who is coming, you idiot!" exclaimed the colonel.
"De redcoats, de British sojuhs, suh; dey 'se fohty boat-loads ob 'em;
dey'se come off fum de lil' sloop out in de ribah, and dey 'se gwine
kill we all, and bu'n de house down. Dey done shot Mars' Blodgett, and
dey'se coming heah special to get you, suh, Mars' Kunnel, kase I heahd
dem say, when I was lyin' down on de wha'f, dat de man dey wanted was
dat Kunnel Wilton."
"It is quite true, sir; they seem to be a party of raiders of some
sort," said Seymour, coolly. "I fear that Blodgett has been killed, as
I heard nothing of him. I saw them from the brow of the hill. Perhaps
you may escape by the back way, though there is little time for that.
Do you take Miss Wilton and try it, sir; leave me to hold these men in
play."
"Yes, yes, father," urged Katharine; "I know it must be Lord Dunmore's
men and Johnson. They know that you have come back from France, and
now the man wants to take you prisoner. You remember what the governor
told you at Williamsburg, that he would make you rue the day you cast
your lot in with the colonists and refused to assist him in the
prosecution of his measures. And you know we have been warned at least
a dozen times about it. Oh, what shall we do? Do fly, and let me stay
here and receive these men."
"What! my daughter, do you think a Wilton has ever left his house to be
defended by his guest and by a woman! Seymour, I believe, however, as
an officer in the service of our country, your best course is to leave
while there is yet time."
"I will never leave you, sir; I will stay here with you and Mistress
Katharine, and share whatever fate may have in store for you."
But even as he spoke, the crowding footsteps of many men were heard at
both entrances to the wide hall-way which ran through the house. At
the same moment the door was violently thrown open, and the dining-room
was filled with an irregular mass of motley, ragged, red-coated men,
whose reckless demeanor and hardened faces indicated that they had been
recruited from the lowest and most depraved classes of the inhabitants
of the colony. They were led by a middle-aged man of dissipated
appearance, whose rough and brutal aspect was not concealed by the
captain's uniform he wore, nor was the malicious triumph in his bearing
and in his voice veiled by the mock courtesy with which he advanced,
pistol in hand.
"What means this intrusion, sir?" shouted Colonel Wilton, in a voice of
thunder.
"This is Colonel Wilton, I believe, is it not?" said the leader of the
band, taking off his hat.
"Yes, sir, it is; you, Mr. Johnson, should be the last to forget it,
and I desire to know at once the meaning of this outrageous descent
upon a peaceful dwelling."
The man bowed low with mock courtesy. "I shall have to ask your
pardon, my dear sir, for appearing before the great Colonel Wilton so
unceremoniously. But my orders, I regret to say, allow me no
discretion whatever; they are imperative. You are my prisoner. I have
been sent here by my Lord Dunmore, the governor of this colony of
Virginia, to secure the persons of some of the principal rebellious
subjects of his majesty King George, and your name, unfortunately, is
the first and chiefest on the list. I shall have to request you to
accompany me at once."
The master of the situation smiled mockingly, and the colonel, white
with anger, looked about the room. Resistance was perfectly hopeless;
all the windows even were now blocked up by the irregular soldiery.
"He has chosen a fit man to do his work," said the colonel, in haughty
scorn; "failing gentlemen, he must needs take blackguards and bullies
into his service as housebreakers and raiders."
Johnson flushed visibly, as he said with another bow, "Colonel Wilton
would better remember that I am master now."
"Sir, I am not likely to forget it. There is the family plate. I
presume, from what I know of your habits, that will not be overlooked
by you."
"Quite so," he returned; "it will doubtless be a welcome contribution
to the treasury of his majesty's colony. Mistress Wilton's diamonds
also," he said meaningly; and then, turning to two of his men,
"Williams, you and Jones bundle up the plate in the tablecloth, get
what's on the sideboard too;" and laying his pistols down upon the
table, he continued:
"But before Colonel Wilton insults me again, it might be well for him
to remember that I am master not only of his person, but of the persons
of all others who are in this room."
The colonel started, and Johnson laughed, looking with insolence from
Katharine to her father.
"What, sir! I reach through your insolent pride now, do I? Curse
you!" with sudden heat, throwing off even the mask of politeness he had
hardly worn. "I swore I would have revenge for that insult at
Williamsburg, and now it's my hour. You are to go with me, and go
peaceably and quietly, or, by God, I 'll have you kicked and dragged
out of the building, or killed like that old fool who tried to stop us
coming up on the landing."
"What! Blodgett, my old friend Blodgett! You villain, you haven't
dared to kill him, have you? Oh, my faithful--"
"Silence, sir! We dare anything. What consideration has a rebel a
right to expect at the hands of his majesty's faithful Rangers? You,
Bruce and Denton, seize the old man. If he makes any trouble, knock
him down, or kill him, for aught I care. One of you, take the girl
there. As for you, sir," to Seymour, who had been quietly watching the
scene, "I don't know who you are, but you are in bad company, and you
will have to consider yourself a prisoner; I trust you have sense
enough to come without force being used. And so," clapping his hat on
his head defiantly, "God save the king!"
Two of the soldiers seized the colonel in spite of the vigorous
resistance he made; another approached Katharine, who had stood with
clasped hands during the whole of the colloquy between Johnson and her
father. The soldier rudely chucked her under the chin, saying, "Come
on, my pretty one! you 'll give us a kiss, won't you, before we start?"
As she drew back, paling at the insult, Seymour, who had seen and heard
it all, quick as a flash drew his sword, and threw himself upon the
soldier; one rapid thrust at the surprised man he made, with all the
force and skill begotten of long practice and a strong arm, and the
hilt of his blade crushed against the man's throat, and he fell dead
upon the floor. At the same instant one of the other soldiers, who had
observed the action, struck Seymour over the head with his clubbed
musket, and he also fell heavily to the floor, and lay there senseless
and still, blood running from a fearful-looking wound in his forehead.
The room was filled with tumult in an instant, and with shouts of "Kill
him!" "Shove your bayonet through the damn rebel hound!" "Shoot him!"
"Kill him!" the men moved towards Seymour. Johnson looked on
unconcernedly.
"Good God!" shrieked the colonel, writhing in the grasp of the men who
held him, "are you going to allow a senseless, wounded man to be
murdered before your eyes? Oh, how could anybody ever mistake you for
a gentleman for an instant?" he added, with withering contempt; and
then turning his head toward the fierce soldiery, "Stop, stop, you
bloody assassins!" he cried.
"Silence, sir! He might as well die this way as on the gallows.
Besides, he struck the first blow, and he has killed one of his
majesty's loyal soldiers. The soldier only wanted to kiss the girl
anyway, and she will find, before she gets to camp, that kisses are
cheap."
"Oh, my God," groaned the father, "and they call this war!"
At this moment one of the soldiers lifted his bayonet to plunge it into
the prostrate form of the unconscious sailor. There was a blinding
flash of light in the room, and a quick, sharp report. The man's arm
dropped to his side, and he shrieked and groaned with pain. Katharine,
unnoticed in the confusion, had slipped to the side of the table, and
had quickly picked up one of the pistols which Johnson had laid upon it
after the silver had been taken away. Her ready decision and unerring
aim had saved her lover's life. She threw the smoking pistol she had
used with such effect down at her feet, and, seizing the other, she
stepped over to the side of her unconscious lover.
"I swear," she said, in a shrill, high-pitched voice which just escaped
a scream, and which trembled with the agitation of the moment, "by my
hope of heaven, if a single man of you lay hands on him, he shall have
this bullet also, you cowards!"
After a moment's hesitation, amid shouts of "Kill the girl!" the men
surged toward her. Chloe, her black maid, flung herself upon her
mistress' breast.
"Oh, honey, I let dem kill me fust."
"Well done, Kate! It's the true Wilton blood. Oh, if I had a free
arm, you villains!" cried the still struggling colonel.
"Seize the girl," Johnson commanded promptly, "and let us get out of
this."
The men made a rush toward the table where Katharine stood undaunted,
her face flushed with excitement, her mouth tense with resolution. She
cried,--
"Have a care, men! have a care!"
One life she could still command with her loaded pistol. Her hands did
not tremble. She waited to strike once more for love and country, but
it would be all over in a moment.
The colonel groaned in agony, "Kate, Kate!" but they were almost upon
her, when a new voice rose above the uproar,--
"Hold! Are you men? Do you war with old men and women? Back with
you! Get back, you dogs! Back, I say!"
CHAPTER V
_A Timely Interference_
A young man in the uniform of a British naval lieutenant leaped in
front of the girl with drawn sword, with which he laid about him
lustily, striking some of the men with the flat of it, threatening
others with the point; and backing his actions by the prompt commands
of one not accustomed to be gainsaid, he soon cleared the space in
front of her.
"How dare you interfere in this matter, my lord?" shouted Johnson,
passionately. "I command this party, and I intend--"
"I know you do," replied the officer, "and that I am only a volunteer
who has chosen to accompany you, worse luck! but I am a gentleman and a
lieutenant in his Britannic majesty's navy, and by heaven! when I see
old men mishandled, and wounded helpless men about to be assassinated,
and young women insulted, I don't care who commands the party, I
interfere. And I don't propose to bandy words with any runagate
American partisan who uses his commission to further private vengeance.
And I swear to you, on my honor, if you do not instantly modify your
treatment of this gentleman, and call off this ragamuffin crew, you
shall be court-martialled, if I have any influence with Dunmore or
Parker or Lord Howe, or whoever is in authority, and I will have the
rest of you hung as high as Haman. This is outrage and robbery and
murder; it is not fighting or making prisoners," continued the young
officer. "You are not fit to be an officer; and you, you curs, you
disgrace the uniform you wear."
Johnson glanced at his men, who stood irresolute before him fiercely
muttering. A rascally mob of the lowest class of people in the colony,
to whom war simply meant opportunity for plunder and rapine, they would
undoubtedly back up their leader, in their present mood, in any attempt
at resistance he might make the young officer. But he hesitated a
moment. Desborough was a lord, high in the confidence of Governor
Dunmore, and a man of great influence; his own position was too
precarious, the game was not worth the candle, and the risk of
opposition was too great.
"Well," he said in sulky acquiescence, "the men meant no special harm,
but have it your own way. Fall back, men! As to what you say to me
personally, you shall answer to me for that at a more fitting time," he
continued doggedly.
"When and where you please," answered Desborough, hotly, "though I 'd
soil a sword by passing it through you. What was Dunmore thinking of
when he put you in charge of this party and sent you to do this work, I
wonder? Give your orders to your men to unhand this gentleman
instantly. You will give your parole, sir? I regret that we are
compelled to secure your person, but those were the orders; and you,
madam," turning to Katharine, "I believe no order requires you to be
taken prisoner, and therefore you shall go free."
But Katharine had knelt down by her prostrate lover as soon as the
space in front of her had been cleared, and was entirely oblivious to
all that was taking place about her.
"Allow me to introduce myself, colonel," he resumed. "I am Lord
Desborough. I have often heard my father, the Earl of Desmond, in
Ireland, speak of you. I regret that we meet under such unpleasant
circumstances, but the governor's orders must be carried out, though I
wish he had sent a more worthy representative to do so. I will see,
however, that everything is done for your comfort in the future."
"Sir," said the colonel, bowing, "you have rendered me a service I can
never repay. I know your father well. He is one of the finest
gentlemen of his time, and his son has this day shown that he is worthy
of the honored name he bears. I will go with you cheerfully, and you
have my parole of honor. Katharine, you are free; you will be safe in
the house, I think, until I can arrange for your departure."
She looked up from the floor, and then rose. "Oh, father, he is dead,
he is dead," she moaned. "Yes, I will go with you; take me away."
"Nay, my child, I cannot."
"Enough of this!" broke in the sneering voice of Johnson. "She has
been taken in open resistance to the king's forces, and, warrant or no
warrant, orders or no orders, or court-martial either," this with a
malevolent glance at Desborough, "she goes with us as a prisoner."
"I will pledge my word, Colonel Wilton, that no violence is offered
her," exclaimed Desborough, promptly, and then, turning to Katharine,--
"Trust me, madam."
"I do, sir," she said faintly, giving him her hand. "You are very
kind."
"It is nothing, mistress," he replied, bowing low over it, as he raised
it respectfully to his lips. "I will hold you safe with my life."
"Very pretty," sneered Johnson; "but are you coming?"
"What shall we do with these two, captain?" asked the sergeant, kicking
the prostrate form of Seymour, and pointing to the body of the man who
had been slain.
"Oh, let them lie there! We can't be bothered with dead and dying men.
One of them is gone; the other soon will be. The slaves will bury
them, and those other three at the foot of the hill--d' ye hear, ye
black niggers? There 's hardly room enough on the sloop for the
living," he continued with cynical indifference.
"All right, captain! As you say, poor Joe's no good now; and as for
the other, that crack of Welsh's was a rare good one; he will probably
die before morning anyhow," replied the sergeant, there being little
love lost among the members of this philosophic crew; besides, the more
dead, the more plunder for the living. And many of the band were even
now following the example of their leader, and roaming over the house,
securing at will whatever excited their fancy, the wine-cellar
especially not being forgotten.
"Oh, my God! John," whispered Katharine, falling on her knees again by
his side, "must I leave you now, oh, my love!" she moaned, taking his
head in her arms, and with her handkerchief wiping the blood from off
his forehead, "and you have died for me--for me."
The colonel saw the action, and knew now what was the subject of the
interview after supper which Seymour had so much desired. He knelt
down beside his daughter, a great pity for her in his soul, and laid
his hand on the prostrate man's heart.
"He is not dead, Katharine," he whispered. "I do not even think he
will die; he will be all right in an hour. If we don't go soon,
Katharine, Philip and Bentley will return and be taken also," he
continued rapidly. "Come, Katharine," he said more loudly, rising.
"Dearest child, we must go,--you must bear this, my daughter; it is for
our country we suffer." But the talismanic word apparently had lost
its charm for her.
"What's all this?" said Johnson, roughly; "she must go." She only
moaned and pressed her lover's hands against her heart.
"And go now! Do you hear? Come, mistress," laying his hand roughly
upon her shoulder.
"Have a care, sir," said Desborough, warningly. "Keep to yourself, my
dear sir; no harm is done. But we must go; and if she won't go
willingly, she will have to be carried, that's all. Do you hear me?
Come on!"
"Come, Katharine," said the colonel, entreatingly.
"Oh, father, father, I cannot leave him! I love him!"
"I know you do, dear; and worthy he is of your love too. Please God
you shall see him once again! But now we must go. Will you not come
with me?"
"I cannot, I cannot!" she repeated.
"But you must, Kate," said the colonel, lifting her up, in deadly
anxiety to get away before his son returned. "You are a prisoner."
"I can't, father; indeed I can't!" she cried again.
She struggled a moment, then half fainted in his arms.
"Who else is here?" said Johnson.
"Only the slaves," replied the colonel.
"Well, we don't want them. Move on, then! Your daughter can take her
maid with her if she wishes," he said with surly courtesy. "Is this
the wench? Well, get your mistress a cloak, and be quick about it!"
Assisted by Chloe, the maid, and Lord Desborough, the colonel half
carried, half led, his daughter out of the room.
"Seymour, Seymour!" she cried despairingly at the door; but he lay
still where he had fallen, seeing and hearing nothing.
CHAPTER VI
_Faithful Subject of his Majesty_
A few miles up the river from Colonel Wilton's plantation, upon a high
bluff, from which, as at that point the river made a wide bend, one could
see up and down for a long distance in either direction, was the
beautiful home of the Talbots, known as Fairview Hall.
On the evening of the raid at the Wilton place, Madam Talbot and her son
were having a very important conversation. Madam Talbot was a widow who
had remained unwedded again from choice. Rumor had it that many
gentlemen cavaliers of the neighborhood had been anxious to take to their
own hearthstones the person of the fair young widow, so early bereft, and
incidentally were willing to assume the responsibility of the management
of the magnificent estate which had been left to her by her most
considerate husband. Among the many suitors gossip held that Colonel
Wilton was the chief, and it was thought at one time that his chances of
success were of the best; but so far, at least, nothing had come of all
the agitation, and Madam Talbot lived her life alone, managing her
plantation, the object of the friendly admiration of all the old
bachelors and widowers of the neighborhood. She had devoted herself to
the successful development of her property with all the energy and
capacity of a nature eminently calculated for success, and was now one of
the richest women in the colony. One son only had blessed her union with
Henry Talbot, and Hilary Talbot was a young man just turned twenty-five
years of age, and the idol of her soul. Too self-contained and too proud
to display the depth of her feelings, except in rare instances, and too
sensible to allow them to interfere in the training of the child, she had
spared neither her heart nor her purse in his education, with such happy
results that he was regarded by all who knew him as one of the finest
specimens of young Virginia that it were possible to meet. Of medium
height, active, handsome, dark-eyed, dark-haired, fiery and impetuous in
temperament, generous and frank in disposition, he was a model among men;
trained from his boyhood in every manly sport and art, and educated in
the best institutions of learning in the colonies, his natural grace
perfected by a tour of two years in England and abroad, from which he had
only a year or so since returned, he perfectly represented all that was
best in the young manhood of Virginia. For many years there had been
hopes in the minds of Colonel Wilton and Madam Talbot, that the affection
between the two young people, who had played together from childhood with
all the frankness and simplicity permitted by country life, would develop
into something nearer and dearer, and that by their marriage at the
proper time the two great estates might be united.
The two children, early informed of this desire, had grown up under the
influence of the idea; as they reached years of discretion, they had
taken it for granted, considering the arrangement as a fact accomplished
by tacit understanding and habit rather than by formal promise.
Personally attached to each other, nay, even fondly affectionate, the
indefinite tie seemed sufficiently substantial to bring about the desired
result. Katharine had, especially during Talbot's absence in Europe,
resisted all the importunities and rejected all the proposals made to
her, and on his account refused all the hearts laid at her feet. Since
Talbot's return, however, and especially since he refused, or hesitated
rather, to cast his lot in with her own people, his neighbors and
friends, in the Revolution, the affair had, on her part at least, assumed
a new phase. Still, there had been nothing said or done to prevent this
consummation so devoutly to be wished until the advent of Seymour. Then,
too, Talbot, calm and confident in the situation, had not noticed
Seymour's infatuation, and was entirely ignorant that the coveted prize
had slipped from his grasp. The insight of the confident lover was not
so keen as that of the watchful father.
It was believed by the principal men of Virginia that Talbot's sympathies
were with the revolted colonies; but the influence of his mother, to whom
he had been accustomed to defer, had hitherto proved sufficient to
prevent him from openly declaring himself. His visit to England, and the
delightful reception he had met with there, had weakened somewhat the
ties which bound him to his native country, and he found himself in a
state of indecision as humiliating as it was painful. Lord Dunmore and
Colonel Wilton had each made great efforts to enlist his support, on
account of his wealth and position and high personal qualities. It was
hinted by one that the ancient barony of the Talbots would be revived by
the king; and the gratitude of a free and grateful country, with the
consciousness of having materially aided in acquiring that independence
which should be the birthright of every Englishman, was eloquently
portrayed by the other. When to the last plea was added the personal
preference of Katharine Wilton, the balance was overcome, and the hopes
of the mother were doomed to disappointment.
For his own hopes, however, the decision had come too late, and it may be
safely presumed that his hesitation was one of the main causes through
which the woman he loved escaped him; for Katharine's heart was given to
young Seymour, after a ten days' courtship, almost before his eyes. In
any event, a wiser man would have seen in Seymour a possible, nay, a
certain rival by no means to be disregarded. An officer who had devoted
himself to the cause of his country in response to the first demand of
the Congress, who had been conspicuously mentioned for gallantry in
general orders and reports, who had been severely wounded while
protecting Katharine's father at the risk of his life; as well bred and
as well born as Talbot, of ample fortune, and with a wide knowledge of
men and things acquired in his merchant voyagings as captain of one of
his own ships in many seas,--Seymour's single-hearted devotion eminently
fitted him to woo and win Miss Katharine Wilton, as he had done.
Nevertheless, a friendship had sprung up between Seymour and the
unsuspecting Talbot which bade fair to ripen into intimacy; and it may be
supposed that the stories of battles in which the older man had
participated, his attractive personality, the consideration in which the
young sailor was held by men of weight and position in the colonies, as a
man from whom much was to be expected, had large influence in determining
Talbot in the course he proposed taking, and which he had not yet
communicated to his mother.
The evening repast had just been finished, and the mother and son were
walking slowly up and down the long porch overlooking the river in front
of the house. There was a curious and interesting likeness between the
two,--a facial resemblance only, for Madam Talbot was a slender, rather
frail little woman, and looked smaller by contrast as she walked by the
side of her son, who had his arm affectionately thrown over her shoulder.
She was as straight, however, as he was himself, in spite of her years
and cares, and bore herself as proudly erect as in the days of her youth.
Her black eyes looked out with undiminished lustre from beneath her
snowy-white hair, which needed no powder and was covered by the mob cap
she wore. She looked every inch the lady of the manor, nor did her
actions and words belie her appearance. The subject of the conversation
was evidently a serious one. There was a troubled expression upon her
face, in spite of her self-control, which was in marked contrast to the
hesitating and somewhat irresolute look upon the handsome countenance of
her son.
"My son, my son," she said at last, "why will you persist in approaching
me upon this subject? You know my opinions. I have not hesitated to
speak frankly, and it is not my habit to change them; in this instance
they are as fixed and as immutable as the polar star. The traditions and
customs of four hundred years are behind me. Our family--you know your
father and I were cousins, and are descended from the same stock--have
been called the 'loyal Talbots.' I cannot contemplate with equanimity
the possibility even of one of us in rebellion against the king."
"Mother--I am sorry--grieved--but I must tell you that that is a
possibility I fear you must learn to face. I have--"
"Oh, Hilary, do not tell me you have finally decided to join this
unrighteous rebellion. Pause before you answer, my boy--I entreat you,
and it is not my habit to entreat, as you very well know. See, you have
been the joy of my heart all my life, the idol of my soul,--I will
confess it now,--and for you and your future I have lived and toiled and
served and loved. I have dreamed you great, high in rank and place,
serving your king, winning back the ancient position of our family. I
have shrunk from no sacrifice, nor would I shrink from any. 'Tis not
that I do not wish you to risk your life in war,--I am a daughter of my
race, and for centuries they have been soldiers, and what God sends
soldiers upon the field, that I can abide,--but that you should go now,
with all your prospects, your ability, the opportunity presented you, and
engage yourself in this fatal cause, in this unholy attack upon the
king's majesty, connect yourself with this beggarly rabble who have been
whipped and beaten every time they have come in contact with the royal
troops,--I cannot bear it. You are a man now. You have grown away from
your mother, Hilary, and I can no longer command, I must entreat." But
she spoke very proudly, for, as she said, entreaty was not so usual to
her as command.
"Oh, mother, mother, you make it very hard for me. You know the
colonists have been badly treated, and hardly used by king and
Parliament. Our liberties have been threatened, nay, have been
abrogated, our privileges destroyed, none of our rights respected, and
unless we are to sink to the level of mere slaves and dependants upon the
mother country, we have no other course but an appeal to arms."
"I know, I know all that," she interrupted impatiently, with a wave of
her hand. "I have heard it all a thousand times from ill-balanced
agitators and popular orators. There may be some truth in it, of course,
I grant you; but in my creed nothing, Hilary, nothing, will justify a
subject in turning against his king. The king can do no wrong. All that
we have is his; let him take what he will, so he leaves us our honor, and
that, indeed, no one can take from us. It is the principle that our
ancestors have attested on a hundred fields and in every other way, and
will you now be false to it, my boy?"
"I must be true to myself, mother, first of all, in spite of all the
kings of earth; and I feel that duty and honor call me to the side of my
friends and the people of this commonwealth. I have hesitated long,
mother, in deference to you, but now I have decided."
"And you turn against two mothers, Hilary, when you take this
course,--old England, the mother country, and this one, this old mother,
who stands before you, who has given you her heart, who has lived for
you, who lives in you now, whose devotion to you has never faltered; she
now humbly asks with outstretched arms, the arms that carried you when
you were a baby boy, that you remain true to your king."
"Nay, but, mamma," he said, calling her by the sweet name of his boyhood,
taking her hand and looking down at her tenderly with tear-dimmed eyes
full of affection, "one must be true to his idea of right and duty first
of all, even at the price of his allegiance to a king; and, after all,
what is any king beside you in my heart? But I feel in honor bound to go
with my people."
The irresolution was gone from his expression now, and the two determined
faces--one full of pity, the other of apprehension--confronted each other.
CHAPTER VII
_The Loyal Talbots_
"Your people, son?" she said after a long pause. "Come with me a
moment." She drew him into the brilliantly lighted hall. As they
entered, he said to the servant in waiting,--
"See that my bay horse is saddled and brought around at once, and do
you tell Dick to get another horse ready and accompany me; he would
better take the black pony."
"Are you going out, Hilary?"
"Yes, mother, when our conversation is over, if there is time. I
thought to ride over to Colonel Wilton's. The night is pleasant, and
the moon will rise shortly. What were you about to say to me?"
She led him up to the great open fireplace, on the andirons of which a
huge log was blazing and crackling cheerfully. Over the mantel was the
picture of a handsome man in the uniform of a soldier of some twenty
years back.
"Whose face is pictured there, Hilary?"
"My honored father," he answered reverently, but in some surprise.
"And how died he?"
"On the Plains of Abraham, mother, as you well know."
"Fighting for his king?"
"Yes, mother."
"And who is this one?" she said, passing to another picture.
"Sir James Talbot; he struck for his king at Worcester," he volunteered.
"Yes, Hilary; and here is his wife, Lady Caroline Talbot, my
grandmother. She kept the door against the Roundheads while the prince
escaped from her castle, to which he had fled after the battle. And
over there is Lord Cecil Talbot, her father; he fell at Naseby. There
in that corner is another James, his brother, one of Prince Rupert's
men, wounded at Marston Moor. Here is Sir Hilary, slain at the Boyne;
and this old man is Lord Philip, your great-uncle. He was out in the
'45, and was beheaded. These are your people, Hilary," she said,
standing very straight, her head thrown back, her eyes aflame with
pride and determination, "and these struck, fought, lived, and died for
their king. I could bear to see you dead," she laid her hand upon her
heart in sudden fear at the idea, in spite of her brave words, "but I
could not bear to see you a rebel. Think again. You will not so
decide?" She said it bravely; it was her final appeal, and as she made
it she knew that it was useless. The sceptre had departed out of her
hand.
He smiled sadly at her, but shook his head ominously. "Mother, do you
know these last fought for Stuart pretenders against the house of
Hanover? George III., in your creed, has no right to the place he
holds. Do I not then follow my ancestors in taking the field against
him?"
"Ah, my child, 't is an unworthy subterfuge. They did fight for the
house of Stuart, God bless it! It was king against king then, and at
least they fought for royalty, for a king; but now the house of Stuart
is gone; the new king occupies the throne undisputed, and our
allegiance is due to him. These unfortunate people who are fighting
here strive to create a republic where all men shall be equal! Said
the sainted martyr Charles on the scaffold, ''T is no concern of the
common people's how they are governed.' A common man equal to a
Talbot! Fight, my son, if you must; but oh, fight for the king, even
an usurper, before a republic, a mob in which so-called equality stands
in very unstable equilibrium,--fight for the rightful ruler of the
land, not against him."
"Mother, if I am to believe the opinions of those whom I have been
taught to respect, the rightful rulers of this colony, of our country,
of any country, are the people who inhabit it."
"And who says that, pray, my boy?"
"Mr. Henry."
"And do you mean to tell me, a Talbot, that you have been taught to
look up to men of the social stamp of Patrick Henry, or to respect
their opinions?" she said with ineffable disdain.
"Mother, the logic of events has forced all men to do so. Had you
heard his speeches before the Burgesses at Williamsburg, you would have
thought that he was second to no man in the colony, or in the world
beside; but if he be not satisfactory, there is his excellency General
Washington."
"Mr. Washington," she replied with an emphasis on the "Mr." "Now
there, I grant you, is a man," she said reluctantly. "I cannot
understand the perversion of his destiny or the folly of his course."
"And, mother, you know his family was as loyal as our own. One of his
forefathers held Worcester for King Charles with the utmost gallantry
and resolution. And he had as a companion in arms in that brave
attempt Sir George Talbot, one of our ancestors. There is an example
for you. I have often heard you speak with the greatest respect of
George Washington."
"It is true, my son," she replied honestly, "but I am at a loss to
fathom his motive. What can it be?"
"Mother, I am persuaded of the purity of his motives; his actions
spring from the very highest sense of his personal obligation to the
cause of liberty."
"'Liberty, liberty,' 't is a weak word when matched with loyalty. But
be this as it may, my son, it is beside the question. Our family,
these men and women who look down upon us, all fought for principles of
royalty. It makes no difference whether or no they fought for or
against one or another king, so long as it was a king they fought for.
Such a thing as a democracy never entered their heads. And if you take
this course, you will be false to every tradition of our past. In my
opinion, the people are not fit to govern, and you will find it so. In
the impious attempt that is being made to reverse what I conceive to be
the divinely appointed polity and law of God, disaster must be the only
end."
"Mother, I must follow my convictions in the present rather than any
examples in the past. But this is a painful discussion. Should we not
best end it? I honor your opinions, I love you, but I must go."
There was a long silence. She broke it. "Well, my child," she said in
despair, "you have reached man's estate, and the men of the Talbot race
have ever been accustomed to do as their judgment dictates. If you
have decided to join Washington's rabble and take part among the rebels
in this fratricidal contest, I shall say no more. I cannot further
oppose you. I cannot give you my blessing--as I might in happier
circumstances--nor can I wish success to your cause. I too am a
Talbot, and have my principles, which I must also maintain; but at
least I can gird your sword about you, and express the hope and make
the prayer, as I do, that you may wear and use it honorably; and that
hope, if you are true to the traditions of our house, will never be
broken,--I feel sure of that, at least."
The young man bent and kissed his mother, a new light shining in his
eyes. "Mother, I thank you. At least, as far as I am concerned, I
will endeavor to do my duty honorably in every field. And now I think,
with your permission, I will go over and tell Katharine that I have at
last made up my mind and cast my lot in with her--I mean with our
country," he said, blushing, but with the thoughtless disregard of
youth as to the meaning and effect of his words.
"Go, my son, and God be with you!" she said solemnly.
He stepped quickly out on the porch, and, swinging into the saddle of
the horse which awaited him, with the ease and grace of an accomplished
horseman, galloped off in the moonlight night followed by the groom.
The little old woman stood rigidly in the doorway a moment, looking
after her departed son, and then she walked quickly down to a rustic
seat on the brow of the hill and sat down heavily, following with
straining eyes and yearning heart his rapidly disappearing figure. The
same pang that every mother must feel, those who have a son at least,
once in her life if no more, came to her heart; all her prayers had
been unavailing, her requests unheeded, her pleas and wishes
disregarded. She had an idea, not altogether warranted perhaps, but
still she had it, that the influence was not so much the example of
General Washington, nor the eloquence of Patrick Henry, nor the force
of neighborly example, nor rigid principle, but the influence of a
sunny head, and a pair of youthful eyes, and a merry laugh, and a young
heart, and a pleading voice. These have always stood in the light of a
mother since the world began, and these have taken her son from her
side. All her hopes gone, her dreams shattered, her sacrifice vain,
her love wasted, she bowed her white head upon her thin hands, and wept
quietly in the silent night. The deep waters had gone over her soul,
and the rare tears of the old woman bespoke a breaking heart.
CHAPTER VIII
_An Untold Story_
There were two roads which led from Fairview Hall to the home of the
Wiltons,--one by the river, and the other over the hills farther
inland. Talbot had chosen the river-road, and was riding along with a
light heart, forgetful of his mother and those tears which indeed she
would not have shown him, and full of pleasant anticipations as to the
effect of his decision upon Katharine.
As he rode along in the moonlight, his mind, full of that calm repose
which comes to men when they have finally arrived at a decision upon
some point which has troubled them, felt free to range where it would,
and naturally his thoughts turned toward the girl he loved. He was
getting along in life, twenty-four his last birthday, while Katharine
was several years his junior. It was time to settle himself; and if he
must ride away to the wars, it were well, pleasant at least, to think
that he was leaving at home a wife over whom he had thrown the
protecting aegis of his name.
Katharine would be much happier,--his thoughts dwelt tenderly upon
her,--and the definite arrangement would be better than this tacit
understanding, which of course was sufficiently binding; though, now he
thought of it, Katharine had seemed a little difficult of late,
probably because of the indefinite character of the tie. He laughed
boyishly in pleasure at his own thought. It was another proof that she
loved him, that she resented any assumption on his part based on hopes
indulged in and plans formed by her father and his mother. He must
declare himself at once. Poor mother! it was hard for her; but she
would soon get over all that, and when he came back distinguished and
honored by the people, she would feel very differently. As for the
capricious Katharine, he would speak out that very night, never
doubting the issue, and get it done with. Of course, that was all that
was necessary.
When she knew that he was engaged heart and soul in the cause of the
Revolution, she would be ready to yield him anything. Not that he had
any doubt of the result of his proposal in any case; as soon doubt that
the nature and orderly sequence of events should be suddenly and
violently interrupted, as imagine that these cherished plans, in which
they had both acquiesced so long ago, should fall through. And so my
lord was prepared to drop the handkerchief at the feet of my lady for
her to pick up! It was a time, however, he might have remembered, in
which the old established order of events in other fields, which men
had long since conceived of as fixed as natural laws, was being rudely
broken and destroyed. Many things which had heretofore been habitually
taken for granted, now were required to be proved, and Talbot was
destined to meet the fate of every over-confident lover. Devotion,
self-abnegation, persistency,--these during ten days had held the
field; and the result of the campaign had been that inevitable one
which may always be looked for when the opposing forces, even after
years of possession, muster under the banner of habit, assurance,
confidence, and neglect.
So musing, the light-hearted gentleman galloped along. The intervening
distance was soon passed over, and Talbot found himself entering the
familiar stretch of woodland which marked the beginning of the
colonel's estate. Under the trees and beneath the high bank of the
river the shadows deepened; scarcely any light from the moon fell on
the road. It was well, therefore, that our cavalier drew rein, and
somewhat checked the pace of his horse, advancing with some caution
over the familiar yet unseen road; for just as he came opposite the
land end of the pier which led out to the boat-house, the animal
stopped with such suddenness that a less practised rider would have
suffered a severe fall. The horse snorted and trembled in terror, and
began rearing and backing away from the spot. Looking down in the
darkness, Talbot could barely discern a dark, bulky object lying in the
road.
"Here, Dick!" he called to the groom, who had stopped and reined in his
own horse, apparently as terrified as the other, a few paces back of
his master; and tossing his bridle rein toward him, "take my horse,
while I see what stopped him."
Lightly leaping to the ground, and stepping up to the object before
him, he bent down and laid his hand upon it, and then started back in
surprise and horror. "It's a man," he exclaimed; "dead, yet warm
still. Who can it be?" The moonlight fell upon the pebbly beach of
the river a little farther out; overcoming his reluctance, he half
lifted, half carried the body out where the light would fall upon its
face. This face, which was unknown to him, was that of a
desperate-looking ruffian, who was dressed in a soiled and tattered
uniform, the coat of which was red; the man's hand tightly clasped a
discharged pistol; he had been shot in the breast, for where his coat
had fallen open might be seen a dark red stain about a ragged hole in
his soiled gray shirt; the bullet had been fired at short range, too,
for there were powder marks all about his breast. Talbot noticed these
things rapidly, his mind working quickly.
"Oh, Mars' Hil'ry--wha-wha's de mattah? I kyarnt hol' dese hosses;
dey'se sumfin wrong, sho'ly," broke in the groom, his teeth chattering
with terror.
"Quiet, man! don't make so much noise. This is the dead body of a man,
a soldier; he has been shot too. Take the horses back beyond the old
tree on the little bend there; tie them securely, and come back here
quickly. Make no noise. Bring the pistols from your holsters."
As the man turned to obey him, Talbot glanced about in perplexity, and
his eyes fell upon a small sloop rapidly disappearing down the river,
under full sail in the fresh breeze which had sprung up. She was too
far away now to make out any details in the moonlight, but the sight
was somewhat unusual and alarming, he scarcely knew why.
"I got dem tied safe, Mars' Hil'ry," called out the voice of the boy
from the road.
"All right, Dick! We will leave this one here, and try to find out
what's wrong; you follow me, and keep the pistols ready."
"Yes, Mars', I got dem." The man was brave enough in the presence of
open danger; it was only the spiritual he feared.
They had scarcely gone ten paces farther toward the path, when, at the
foot of it, they stumbled over another body.
"Here is another one. What does it mean? See who it is, Dick."
The groom, mastering his instinctive aversion, bent down obediently,
and lifting the face peered into it. It was lighter here, and he
recognized it at once.
"Hit's Mars' Blodgett, de kunnel's old sojuh man. Him got a
bullet-hole in de fohaid, suh; him a dead man sholy, an' heah is his
gun by his han'," he said in an awestruck whisper.
"Blodgett! Good God, it can't be."
"Yes, suh, it's him, and dere's anoder one ober dah. See, suh!" He
laid his hand upon another body, in the same uniform as the first one.
This man groaned slightly.
"Dis one's not daid yit," said Dick, excitedly; "he been hit ober de
haid, his face all bloody. Oh, Mars' Hil'ry, dem raidahs you done tell
me 'bout been heah. Mars' Blodgett done shot dat one by de riber on de
waf, an' den hit dis one wid his musket, an' den dey done shoot Mars'
Blodgett. Oh, Mars' Hil'ry, le' 's get out ob heah."
Talbot saw it all now,--the slow and stealthy approach of the boat from
the little sloop out in the river (it had disappeared round the bend,
he noticed), Blodgett's quiet watch at the foot of the path, the
approach of the men, Blodgett's challenge, the first one shot dead as
he came up, the pistol-shot which missed him, the rush of the men at
the indomitable old soldier, the nearest one struck down from the blow
of the clubbed musket of the sturdy old man, the second pistol-shot,
which hit him in the forehead, his fall across the path. Faithful unto
death at the post of duty. The little drama was perfectly plain to
him. But who were these raiders? Who could they be? And Katharine?
"Oh, my God," he exclaimed, stung into quick action at the thought of a
possible peril to his love. "Come, Dick, to the house; she may be in
danger."
"But dis libe one, Mars' Hil'ry?"
"Quick, quick! leave him; we will see about him later."
With no further attempt at caution, they sprang recklessly up the steep
path, and, gaining the brow of the hill, ran at full speed toward the
house. He noticed that there were no lights in the negro quarters, no
sounds of the merry-making usually going on there in the early evening.
Through the open windows on the side of the house, he had a hasty
glimpse of the disordered dining-room. The great doors of the hall
were open. They were on the porch now,--now at the door of the hall.
It was empty. He paused a second. "Katharine, Katharine!" he called
aloud, a note of fear in his voice, "where are you? Colonel Wilton!"
In the silence which his voice had broken he heard a weak and feeble
moan, which struck terror into his heart.
He ran hastily down the hall, and stopped at the dining-room door
aghast. The smoking candles in the sconces were throwing a somewhat
uncertain light over a scene of devastation and ruin; the furniture of
the table and the accessories of the meal lay in a broken heap at the
foot of it, the chairs were overturned, the curtains torn, the great
sideboard had been swept bare of its usual load of glittering silver.
At his feet lay the body of a man, in the now familiar red uniform,
blood from a ghastly sword-thrust clotted about his throat, the floor
about his head being covered with ominous stains. A little farther
away on the floor, near the table, there was the body of another man,
in another uniform, a naked sword lying by his side; he had a
frightful-looking wound on his forehead, and the blood was slowly
oozing out of his coat-sleeve, staining the lace at his left wrist.
Even as he looked, the man turned a little on the floor, and the same
low moan broke from his lips. Talbot stepped over the first body to
the side of the other.
"My God, it's Seymour," he said. He knelt beside him, as Katharine had
done. "Seymour," he called, "Seymour!" The man opened his eyes
slowly, and looked vacantly at him.
"Katharine," he murmured.
"What of her? is she safe?" asked Talbot, in an agony of fear.
"Raiders--prisoner," continued Seymour, brokenly, in a whisper, and
then feebly murmured, "Water, water!"
"Here, Dick, get some water quickly! First hand me that decanter of
wine," pointing to one which had fortunately escaped the eyes of the
marauders. He lifted Seymour's head gently, and with a napkin which he
had picked up from the floor, wiped the bloody face, washing it with
the water the groom quickly brought from the well outside.
Then he poured a little of the wine down the wounded man's throat, next
slit the sleeve of his coat, and saw that the scarcely healed wound in
the arm had broken out again. He bandaged it up with no small skill
with some of the other neglected table linen, and the effect upon
Seymour of the stimulant and of these ministrations was at once
apparent. With a stronger voice he said slowly,--
"Dunmore's men--Captain Johnson--colonel a prisoner--Katharine
also--God grant--no harm intended."
"Hush, hush! I understand. But where are the slaves?"
"Terrified, I suppose--in hiding."
"Dick, see if you can find any of them. Hurry up! We must take Mr.
Seymour back to Fairview tonight, and report this outrage to the
military commander at Alexandria. Oh that I had a boat and a few men!"
he murmured. Katharine was gone. He would not tell his story
to-night; she was in the hands of a gang of ruffians. He knew the
reputation of Johnson, and the motives which might actuate him. There
had been a struggle, it was evident; perhaps she had been wounded,
killed. Agony! He knew now how he loved her, and it was too late.
Presently the groom returned, followed by a mob of frightened,
terror-stricken negroes who had fled at the first advent of the party.
Talbot issued his orders rapidly. "Some of you get the carriage ready;
we must take Lieutenant Seymour to Fairview Hall. Some of you go down
to the landing and bring up the bodies of the three men there. You go
with that party, Dick. Phoebus, you get this room cleared up. Hurry,
stir yourselves! You are all right now; the raiders have gone and are
not likely to return."
"Why, where is Master Philip, I wonder? Was he also taken?" he said
suddenly. "Have any of you seen him?" he asked of the servants.
"He done gone away fishin' wid Mars' Bentley," replied the old butler,
pausing; "and dey ain't got back yit, tank de Lawd; but I spec 'em ev'y
minute, suh."
CHAPTER IX
_Bentley's Prayer_
As he spoke, a fresh youthful voice was heard in the hall. "Father,
Kate, where are you? Come see our string of-- Why, what's all this?"
said a young man, standing astonished in the door of the room. It was
Philip Wilton, holding a long string of fish, the result of their day's
sport; behind him stood the tall stalwart figure of the old sailor.
"Talbot--you? Where are father and Kate? What are these men doing in
the dining-room? Oh, what is that?" he said, shrinking back in horror
from the corpse of the soldier.
"Dunmore's raiders have been here."
"And Katharine?"
"A prisoner, with your father, Philip, but I trust both are uninjured."
"Mr. Seymour, sir, where is he?" said the deep voice of the boatswain,
as he advanced farther into the room. The light fell full upon him.
He was a splendid specimen of athletic manhood; tall, powerful,
long-armed, slightly bent in the shoulders; decision and courage were
seen in his bearing, and were written on his face, burned a dull
mahogany color by years of exposure to the weather. He was clothed in
the open shirt and loose trousers of a seafaring man, and he stood with
his feet slightly apart, as if balancing himself to the uneasy roll of
a ship. Honesty and fidelity and intelligence spoke out from his eyes,
and affection and anxiety were heard in his voice.
"Lieutenant Seymour," he repeated, "where is he, sir?"
"There," said Talbot, stepping aside and pointing to the floor.
"Not dead, sir, is he?"
"Not yet, Bentley," Seymour, with regaining strength, replied; "I am
not done for this time."
"Oh, Mr. John, Mr. John," said the old man, tenderly, bending over him,
"I thank God to see you alive again. But, as I live, they shall pay
dear for this--whoever has done it,--the bloody, marauding, ruffians!"
"Yes, Bentley, I join you in that vow," said Talbot.
"And I too," added Philip, bravely.
"And I," whispered the wounded man.
"It's one more score that has got to be paid off by King George's men,
one more outrage on this country, one more debt we owe the English,"
Bentley continued fiercely.
"No; these were Americans, Virginians,--more's the shame,--led by that
blackguard Johnson. He has long hated the colonel," replied Talbot.
"Curses on the renegades!" said the old man. "Who is it that loves
freedom and sees not that the blow must be struck to-day? How can any
man born in this land hesitate to--" He stopped suddenly, as his eyes
fell upon Talbot, whose previous irresolution and refusal had been no
secret to him.
"Don't stop for me, Bentley," said that young man, gently; "I am with
you now. I came over this evening to tell our friends here that I
start north tomorrow as a volunteer to offer my services to General
Washington."
"Oh, Hilary," exclaimed Philip, joyfully, "I am so glad. Would that
Katharine and father could hear you now!"
Seymour lifted his unwounded arm, and beckoned to Talbot. "God bless
you, Talbot," he said; "to hear you say that is worth a dozen cracks
like this, and I feel stronger every minute. If it were not for the
old wound, I would n't mind this thing a bit. But there is something
you must do. There is an armed cutter stationed up the river at
Alexandria; send some one to notify the commander of the Virginia naval
militia there. They will pursue and perhaps recapture the party. But
the word must be carried quickly; I fear it will be too late as it is."
"I will go, Hilary, if you think best."
"Very well, Philip; take your best horse and do not delay a moment.
Katharine's liberty, your father's life perhaps, depend upon your
promptness. Better see Mr. West as you go through the town,--your
father's agent, you know,--and ask him to call upon me to-morrow. Stop
at the Hall as you come back."
"All right, Hilary, I will be in Alexandria in four hours," said
Philip, running out.
"Bentley, I am going to take Lieutenant Seymour over to my plantation.
Will you stay here and look after the house until I can notify Colonel
Wilton's agent at Alexandria to come and take charge, or until we hear
from the colonel what is to be done? You can come over in the morning,
you know, and hear about our protégé. I am afraid the slaves would
never stay here alone; they are so disorganized and terrorized now over
these unfortunate occurrences as to be almost useless."
"Ay, ay, sir; if Lieutenant Seymour can spare me, I will stay."
"Yes, Bentley, do; I shall be in good hands at Fairview Hall."
"This is arranged, then," said Talbot. "It is nine o'clock. I think
we would better start at once. I will go out and see that the
arrangements about the carriage are made properly, myself," he said,
stepping through the door.
Seymour's hand had closed tightly over something which had happened to
fall near where it lay. "Bentley," he called, "what is this in my
hand?"
"It is a handkerchief, Mr. John,--a woman's handkerchief too, sir, and
covered with blood."
"Has it any marks on it?" said Seymour, eagerly.
"Yes, sir; here are the letters K. W. embroidered in this corner."
"I thought so," he smiled triumphantly. "Will you put it inside my
waistcoat, there, over my heart? Yes," he added, as if in answer to
the old man's anxious look, "it is true; I love her, and she has
confessed that she loves me. Oh, who will protect her now?"
"God, sir," said Bentley, solemnly, but with a strange pang of almost
womanly jealousy in his faithful old heart.
"Ay, old friend, He will watch over her. He knows best. Now help me
up."
"No, sir. Beg pardon for disobeying orders, but you are to lie still.
We will carry you to the carriage. Nay, sir, you must. You are too
weak from loss of blood with two wounds on you to stand it. A few days
will bring you about all right, though, I hope, sir."
"All ready, Bentley?" said Talbot, coming into the room. "The negro
boys have rigged up a stretcher out of a shutter, and with a mattress
and blankets in the carriage, I think we can manage, driving carefully,
to take him over without any great discomfort. I have sent Dick on
ahead to ride over to Dr. Craik's and bid him come to the Hall at once;
so Mr. Seymour will be well looked after. By the way, Blodgett is
dead. I had almost forgotten him. He evidently met and fought those
fellows at the landing. We found him at the foot of the steps by the
boat-landing with two bodies. That reminds me, one of them was alive
when we came by. I told the men to bring all three of the bodies up.
Here they are now. Are any of them alive yet, Caesar?"
"No, suh, dey 'se all ob 'em daid."
"Take the two redcoats into the dining-room with the other one. Lay
Blodgett here in the hall. He must have been killed instantly. Well;
good-by, I shall be over in the morning," he exclaimed, extending his
hand.
"Good-by, sir," said the seaman, taking it in his own huge palm. "Take
care of Lieutenant Seymour."
"Oh, never fear; we will."
"And may God give the men who did this into our hands!" added Bentley,
raising his arms solemnly.
"Amen," said Talbot, with equal gravity.
Seymour was tenderly lifted into the carriage, and attended by Talbot,
who sat by his side. Followed by two servants who had orders to get
the horses, which they found tied where they had been left, the
carriage drove off to the Hall. With what different thoughts was the
mind of the young man busy! Scarcely an hour had elapsed since he
galloped over the road, a light-hearted boy, flushed with hope, filled
with confidence, delighted in his decision, anticipating a reception,
meditating words of love. In that one hour the boy had changed from
youth to man. The love which he had hardly dreamed was in his heart
had risen like a wave and overwhelmed him; the capture and abduction of
his sweetheart, the whole brutal and outrageous proceeding, had filled
him with burning wrath. He could not wait to strike a blow for liberty
against such tyranny now, and his soul was full of resentment to the
mother he had loved and honored, because she had held him back; all of
the devoted past was forgotten in one impetuous desire of the present.
To-morrow should see him on the way to the army, he swore. He wrung
his hands in impotent passion.
"Katharine, Katharine, where are you?" he murmured. Seymour stirred.
"Are you in pain, my friend?"
"No," said the sailor quietly, his heart beating against the
blood-stained handkerchief, as he echoed in his soul the words he had
heard: "Katharine, Katharine, where are you? where are you?"
CHAPTER X
_A Soldier's Epitaph_
Left to himself in the deserted hall, the old sailor walked over to the
body of the old soldier. Many a quaint dispute these two old men had
held in their brief acquaintance, and upon no one thing had they been
able to agree, except in hatred of the English and love of their common
country. Still their disputes had been friendly, and, if they had not
loved, they had at least respected each other.
"I wish I had not been so hard on the man. I really liked him,"
soliloquized the sailor. "Poor Blodgett, almost forgotten, as Mr.
Talbot says. He died the right way, though, doing his duty, fighting
for his country and for those he loved. Well, he was a brave man--for
a soldier," he murmured thoughtfully.
Out on the river the little sloop was speeding rapidly along. Ride as
thou wilt, Philip, she cannot be overtaken. Most of the exhausted men
lay about the decks in drunken slumber. Johnson stood moodily by the
man at the helm; his triumph had been tempered by Desborough's
interference. Two or three of the more decent of his followers were
discussing the events of the night.
"Poor Joe!" said one.
"Yes, and Evans and Whitely too," was the reply.
"Ay, three dead, and nobody hurt for it," answered the other.
"You forget the old fellow at the landing, though."
"Yes, he fought like the devil, and came near balking the whole game.
That was a lucky shot you got in, Davis, after Evans missed and was
hit. That fellow was a brave man--for a rebel," said the raider.
In the cabin of the sloop Colonel Wilton was sitting on one of the
lockers, his arm around Katharine, who was leaning against him,
weeping, her hands before her face. Desborough was standing
respectfully in front of them.
"And you say he made a good fight?" asked the colonel, sadly.
"Splendid, sir. We stole up to the boat-house with muffled oars,
wishing to give no warning, and before he knew it half of us were on
the wharf. He challenged, we made a rush; he shot the first man in the
breast and brained the next with his clubbed musket, shouting words of
warning the while. The men fell back and handled their pistols. I
heard two or three shots, and then he fell, never making another sound.
But for Johnson's forethought in sending a second boat load to the
upper landing to get to the back of the house, you might have escaped
with the warning and the delay he caused. He was a brave man, and died
like a soldier," continued the young man, softly.
"He saved my life at Cartagena, and when I caught the fever there, he
nursed me at the risk of his own. He was faithfulness itself. He died
as he would have liked to die, with his face to the enemy. I loved him
in a way you can hardly understand. Yes, he was a brave man,--my poor
old friend."
On the rustic bench beside the driveway overlooking the river sat a
little woman, older by ten years in the two hours which had elapsed
since she looked after the disappearing figure of her son.
She heard the sound of wheels upon the gravel road, and recognized
Colonel Wilton's carriage and horses coming up the hill; there were her
own two horses following after, but neither of the riders was her son.
What could have happened? She rose in alarm. The carriage stopped
near her.
"What, mother, are you still here?" said Hilary, opening the door and
stepping out, his voice cold and stern.
"Yes, my son; what has happened?"
"Dunmore's men have raided the Wilton place. Katharine and her father
have been carried away by that brute Johnson, who commanded the party.
Seymour has been wounded in defending Katharine. I have brought him
here. This is the way," he went on fiercely, "his majesty the king
wages war on his beloved subjects of Virginia."
"'They that take the sword, shall perish with the sword,'" she quoted
with equal resolution.
"And Blodgett is killed too," he added.
"What else have those who rebel against their rightful monarch a right
to expect?" she replied. "Is Mr. Seymour seriously wounded?"
"No, madam," answered that young man, from the carriage; "but I fear me
my cause makes me an unwelcome visitor."
"Nay, not so, sir. No wounded helpless man craving assistance can ever
be unwelcome at my--at the home of the Talbots, whatever his creed.
How died Blodgett, did you say, Hilary?"
"Fighting for his master, at the foot of the path, shot by those
ruffians."
"So may it be to all enemies of the king," she replied; "but after all
he was a brave man. 'T is a pity he fell in so poor a cause."
And that was thy epitaph, old soldier; that thy requiem, honest
Blodgett,--from friend and foe alike,--"He was a brave man."
BOOK II
KNIGHTS ERRANT OF THE SEA
CHAPTER XI
_Captain John Paul Jones_
"You would better spread a little more canvas, Mr. Seymour. I think we
shall do better under the topgallantsails. We have no time to lose."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the young executive officer; and then lifting
the trumpet to his lips, he called out with a powerful voice, "Lay
aloft and loose the topgallantsails! Man the topgallant sheets and
halliards!"
The crew, both watches being on deck, were busy with the various duties
rendered necessary by the departure of a ship upon a long cruise, and
were occupied here and there with the different details of work to be
done when a ship gets under way. Some of them, their tasks
accomplished for the moment, were standing on the forecastle, or
peering through the gun ports, gazing at the city, with the tall spire
of Christ Church and the more substantial elevation of the building
even then beginning to be known as Independence Hall, rising in the
background beyond the shipping and over the other buildings which they
were so rapidly leaving. In an instant the quiet deck became a scene
of quick activity, as the men left their tasks and sprang to their
appointed stations. The long coils of rope were thrown upon the deck
and seized by the groups of seamen detailed for the purpose; while the
rigging shook under the quick steps of the alert topmen springing up
the ratlines, swarming over the tops, and laying out on the yards,
without a thought of the giddy elevation, in their intense rivalry each
to be first.
"The main royal also, Mr. Seymour," continued the captain. "I think
she will bear it; 'tis a new and good stick."
"Ay, ay, sir. Main topgallant yard there."
"Sir?"
"Aloft, one of you, and loose the royal as well."
"Ay, ay, sir."
After a few moments of quick work, the officers of the various masts
indicated their readiness for the next order by saying, in rapid
succession,--
"All ready the fore, sir."
"All ready the main, sir."
"All ready the mizzen, sir."
"Handsomely now, and all together. I want those Frenchmen there to see
how smartly we can do this," said the captain, in reply, addressing
Seymour in a tone perfectly audible over the ship.
"Let fall! Lay in! Sheet home! Hoist away! Tend the braces there!"
shouted the first lieutenant.
Amid the creaking of blocks, the straining of cordage, and the lusty
heaving of the men, with the shrill pipes of the boatswain and his
mates for an accompaniment, the sheets were hauled home on the yards,
the yards rose on their respective masts, and the light sails, the
braces being hauled taut, bellied out in the strong breeze, adding
materially to the speed of the ship.
"Lay down from aloft," cried the lieutenant, when all was over.
"Ay, that will do," remarked the captain. "We go better already. I am
most anxious to get clear of the Capes before nightfall. Call the men
aft, and request the officers to come up on the quarterdeck. I wish to
speak to them."
"Ay, ay, sir.--Mr. Wilton," said the young officer, turning to a young
midshipman, standing on the lee-side of the deck, "step below and ask
the officers there, and those forward, to come on deck. Bentley," he
called to the boatswain, "call all hands aft."
"Ay, ay, sir."
Again the shrill whistling of the pipes was heard, followed by the deep
tones of Bentley, which rolled and tumbled along the decks of the ship
in the usual long-drawn monotonous cry, which could be heard, above the
roar of the wind or the rush of the water or the straining of the
timbers, from the truck to the keelson: "All hands lay aft, to the
quarter-deck."
The captain, standing upon the poop-deck, was not, at first glance, a
particularly imposing figure. He was small in stature, scarcely five
and a half feet high at best, with his natural height diminished, as is
often the case with sailors, by a slight bending of the back and
stooping of the shoulders; yet he possessed a well-knit, vigorous, and
not ungraceful figure, whose careless poise, and the ease with which he
maintained his position, with his hands clasped behind his back, in
spite of the rather heavy roll and pitch of the ship, in the very
strong breeze, indicated long familiarity with the sea.
His naturally dark complexion was rendered extremely swarthy by the
long exposure to weather, and tropic weather at that, which he had
undergone. The expression of his face was of that abstract and
thoughtful, nay, even melancholy, cast which we commonly associate with
the student rather than the man of affairs. He was dressed in the
prescribed uniform of a captain of the American navy, in the
Revolutionary period: a dark blue cloth coat with red lapels, slashed
cuffs, and stand-up collar, flat gold buttons (this last a piece of
unusual extravagance); blue breeches, and a red waistcoat heavily
laced; silk stockings and buckled shoes, with a curved cross-hilted
sword and cocked hat, completed his attire. As the men came crowding
aft to the main mast, the idlers tumbling up through the hatches in
response to the command, his indifferent look gave way to one of quick
attention, and each individual seaman seemed to be especially embraced
in the severe scrutiny with which he regarded the mass. In truth, they
were a crew of which any officer might well be proud; somewhat motley
and nondescript as to uniform and appearance, perhaps, and unused to
the strict discipline of men-of-war, but hardy, bold, resolute seamen,
with whom, properly led, all things were possible,--men who would
hesitate at nothing in the way of attack, and who were permeated with
such an intensity of hate for England and for British men-of-war as
made them the most dangerous foes that country ever encountered on the
seas. Several of them, Bentley among the number, had been pressed, at
one time or another, on English war vessels; and one or two had even
felt the lash upon their backs, and bore shocking testimony, in
deep-scarred wounds, to the barbaric method of punishment in vogue for
the maintenance of discipline in the British navy, and, indeed, in all
the great navies of the world,--a practice, however, but little
resorted to by the American navy.
The officers, gathered in a little knot on the lee side of the
quarter-deck, several midshipmen among them, were worthy of the crew
and the commander.
"Men," said the captain, in a clear, firm voice, removing his cocked
hat from his thick black hair, tied in a queue and entirely devoid of
powder, as he looked down at them from the break of the poop with his
piercing black eyes, "we are bound for English waters--"
"Hurrah, hurrah!" cried many voices from the crew, impetuously.
"We will show the new flag for the first time on the high seas," he
continued, visibly pleased, and pointing proudly to the stars and
stripes, which his own hand had first hoisted, fluttering gayly out at
the peak; "and I trust we may strike a blow or two which will cause it,
and us, to be long remembered. While you are under my orders I shall
expect from you prompt, unquestioned compliance with my commands, or
those of my officers, and a ready submission to the hard discipline of
a ship-of-war, to which most of you, I suspect, are unfamiliar, unless
you have learned it in that bitter school, a British ship. You will
learn, however, while principles of equality are very well in civil
life, they have no place in the naval service. Subordination is the
word here; this is not a trading-vessel, but a ship-of-war, and I
intend to be implicitly obeyed," he continued sternly, looking even
more fiercely at them. "Nevertheless," he added, somewhat relaxing his
set features, "although we be not a peaceful merchantman, yet I expect
and intend to do a little trading with the ships of the enemy, and in
any prizes which we may capture, you know you will all have a just,
nay, a liberal, share. It must not be lost sight of, however, that the
first business of this ship, as of every other ship-of-war of our
country, is to fight the ships of the enemy of equal, or of not too
great, force. Should we find such a one, as is most likely, in the
English Channel, we must remember that the honor and glory of our flag
are above prize money."
"Three cheers for Captain John Paul Jones!" cried one of the seamen,
leaping on a gun and waving his hat; they were given with a mighty rush
from nearly two hundred lusty throats, the ship being heavily
overmanned for future emergencies.
"That will do, men," said the captain, smiling darkly. "Remember that
a willing crew makes a happy cruise--and don't wake the sleeping
cat![1] Mr. Seymour, have the boatswain pipe all hands to grog, then
set the watches. Mr. Talbot," he added, turning to the young officer
in the familiar buff and blue of the Continental army, who stood by his
side, an interested and attentive spectator to all that had occurred,
"will you do me the honor of taking a glass of wine with me in the
cabin?--I should be glad if you would join us also, Mr. Seymour, after
the watch has been called, and you can leave the deck. Let Mr.
Wallingford have the watch; he is familiar with the bay. Tell him to
take in the royal and the fore and mizzen topgallantsails if it blows
heavily," he continued, after a pause, and then, bowing, he left the
deck.
[1] The cat-o'-nine-tails, used for punishment by flogging.
CHAPTER XII
_An Important Commission_
Meanwhile, interesting conversations were going on forward, of which
this is a sample.
"I 'm blest if I like this orderin' business," said one grizzled
seaman; "they said he was h--l on orders, but what I shipped for was
prize money and a chance to get a lick at them bloody Britishers; not
for to clean brass work, an' scrape spars, an' flemish down, an'
holy-stone decks, which he won't let us spit terbacker on. I don't
call this no fighting fur liberty, not by a durn sight."
"Shut up, Bill," replied another; "you've got to obey orders. This
yere ain't no old tea wagon, no fishing-boat, you old scowbanker, it's
a wessel-o'-war; and may I never see Nantucket again if the old man,"
using a merchantman's expression, "ain't goin' to be captain of the old
hooker while he's in it. And if you call this hard work and growl at
this kind o' dissyplin'--well, all I got ter say, you'd oughter been on
the old Radnor. Curse the British devils!" he cried, grinding his heel
in the deck. "I 'd give twenty years of my life to be alongside her in
a ship half her size; yes, even in this one, and I tell ye yon 's the
man to put her there, if he gets a chance. Ain't that so, mates?"
"Ay, ay, Jack, 'tis true," came a deep-toned chorus of approval.
"Besides," went on the forecastle orator, "we all know'd wot kind of a
officer he is. Fightin' and prize money is wot we all want; and here
's where we 'll git it, you 'll see, eh, mates?"
"Ay, ay; Jack's right, Bill."
"Then blow the dissyplin', say I; I'll take orders from a man wot ain't
afraid o' nothin', wot hates the red rag we knows of, wot won't send me
where he won't go himself. Fightin' and prize money, he 's our man.
Besides, wot's the use o' kickin', we got to do it; we're bound by them
articles of war we signed," continued this deep-sea philosopher. "Now,
pass me my can o' grog, Tom, I 'm dry as a cod. Here 's to America,
and damn the British, too," continued this sea lawyer, drinking his
toast amid shouts of approval from the men.
Left to himself, Seymour, after the men had received their grog, and
other necessary duties had been attended to, turned the deck over to
Lieutenant Wallingford, whose watch it was with Philip Wilton, and,
descending the poop-deck ladder, disappeared through the same door
which had received the two officers into the cabin.
Three weeks had elapsed since the raid upon the Wilton place, and the
scene had shifted from Virginia to the sea, or rather to the great bay
which gives entrance to it, from the Delaware River. It was a clear
cold day in the early part of December, and the American Continental
ship Ranger had just left her moorings off Philadelphia, with orders to
proceed to English waters; stopping at Brest to receive the orders of
the commissioners in Paris, and then, in case no better ship could be
found, to ravage the English Channel and coast, as a warning that like
processes, on the part of England on our own shores, should not go
unpunished.
John Paul Jones, who had already given evidence, not only of that
desperate courage and unyielding tenacity which had marked him as among
the most notable of sea officers the world has seen,--lacking nothing
but opportunity to have equalled, if not surpassed a Nelson--but of
consummate seamanship and great executive ability as well, had been
appointed to command the ship. Before proceeding on the mission,
however, an important undertaking had been allotted to him. The
commissioners had sent word from France, by a fast-sailing armed
packet, of the near departure of a transport from England, called the
Mellish, laden with two thousand muskets, twenty field-pieces, powder,
and other munitions of war, and ten thousand suits of winter clothes,
destined for the army that was assembling at Halifax and Quebec for the
invasion of the colonies, by way of the St. Lawrence River and Lake
Champlain.
Congress had transmitted the letter from France to Captain Jones, with
directions that he endeavor to intercept and capture this transport.
The destitution of the American army at this period of the war was
frightful: devoid of clothes, arms, provisions, powder,--everything, in
fact, which is apparently vital to the existence of an army;
continually beaten, menaced by a confident, well-equipped, and
disciplined enemy in overwhelming force, and before whom they had been
habitually retreating, they were only held together by the indomitable
will and heroic resolution of one man, George Washington. The fortunes
of the colonies were never at a lower ebb than at that moment, and
there was apparently nothing further to look forward to but a
continuation of the disintegration until the end came. The meagre
resources of the lax confederacy were already strained to the utmost,
and the capture of a ship laden as this one was reported to be, would
be of incalculable service. Clothes and shoes to cover the nakedness
of the soldiery and protect them from the inclemency of the winter, now
fast approaching, and arms to put in their hands, by means of which
they could assume the offensive and attack the enemy, or at least
defend themselves--what more could they desire! The desperate nature
of the situation, the dire need of just such additions to the equipment
of the army, had been plainly communicated to Captain Jones, and he was
resolved to effect the capture if it were humanly possible. The matter
had also been reported to General Washington; and such was his opinion
of the necessity of a prompt distribution and a speedy forwarding of
the supplies, if they could be secured, by the blessing of Providence,
and so little was his faith in the inefficient commissariat, which,
moreover, had to endeavor to keep the balance between different
colonies and different bodies of troops, more or less loosely coherent,
that he had detailed one of his own staff officers to accompany the
ship, with explicit instructions as to the exact distribution and the
prompt forwarding which the needs of the troops rendered necessary,
when the captured ship should reach port, which would probably be
Boston, though circumstances might render it advisable to take the
longer journey to Philadelphia. The officer to whom this duty had been
allotted was Talbot, of whose capacity and energy General Washington
already thought highly; the three weeks of their military association
only confirming his previous opinion. It was understood that Seymour,
who was Jones' first lieutenant, and would shortly be promoted to a
captaincy, would bring back the transport if they were lucky enough to
capture it. In case they were unsuccessful, Talbot was to report
himself to the commissioners at Paris as military secretary, until
further orders; and Seymour was to command the Ranger, when Jones
should get a better ship in France.
The Ranger was a small sloop of war, a corvette of perhaps five hundred
tons, with a raised poop and a topgallant forecastle, built at
Portsmouth, New Hampshire; a new ship, and one of the first of those
built especially for naval purposes. She was originally intended for
twenty-six guns, but the number, through the wisdom of her captain, who
had fathomed the qualifications of the ship, had been reduced to
eighteen, four long twelves, and the rest six pounders, and smaller,
with one long eighteen forward. She had been some days in commission,
and the effect of Jones' iron discipline was already apparent in the
absence of confusion and in the cleanness and order of the ship. The
vessel had been very popular with the good people of Philadelphia, her
commander and officers likewise, many of the latter, like Seymour,
being natives of the town; and a constant stream of visitors had
inspected her, at all permitted hours. The presence of these visitors,
of course including many ladies, coupled with an inherent vanity and
love of finery and neatness on the part of the captain,--and, to do him
justice, his appreciation of the necessity for order and neatness,--had
caused him to maintain his ship in the handsomest possible trim, and he
had not scrupled to employ his private fortune to beautify the vessel
in many small ways, the details of which would have escaped any eye but
that of a seaman, though the general results were apparent.
That general appearance which should always distinguish a trim and
well-ordered vessel of war from the clumsy and disorderly trader, was
due entirely to his efforts. The crew, as we have seen, had chafed
under the unusual restraints of this stern discipline; but they were
unable, as, indeed, in the last resort they would have been unwilling,
to oppose it. Some of the older men, too, and some of those who had
sailed with Jones in his already famous cruises, held out the hope of
large prize money, and, what was better with many of them, the chance
of a blow at the enemy, if any of her cruisers of anything like equal
force appeared,--a chance sure to come about in the frequented waters
of the English Channel. The crew of an American man-of-war at that
period, at least the native portion of it, always in overwhelming
majority, was of much higher class than the general run of seafaring
men. Among those in the Ranger were several who had been mates of
merchantmen,--Bentley again among the number,--men of some education,
and able to serve their country as officers with credit, had the navy
been increased as it should have been, and whose subordinate positions
only indicated their intense patriotism. The low and degraded element
which sometimes is such a source of mischief and disaster in ships'
crews, was conspicuous by its absence. The reputation of Captain Jones
as a disciplinarian was very well known among sailors generally, and
only his reputation as a fighter and a successful prize-taker would
have enabled him to assemble the remarkable crew to which he had
spoken, and which was to back him up so gallantly in many desperate
undertakings and wonderful sea fights, of this and his succeeding
phenomenal cruise.
Seymour had rapidly recovered from his wounds under Madam Talbot's
careful nursing and ministrations, and when his orders reached him he
had been ready, accompanied by Philip Wilton and Bentley, to join his
ship at once.
He still carried the blood-stained handkerchief, and many and many a
time had laid it, with its initials, "K. W.," embroidered by her own
hand, upon his lips. This was not his only treasure, however. In a
wallet in the breast pocket of his coat he carried and treasured a
letter, only the veriest scrap of paper, with these few lines hastily
written upon it.
_These by a friendly hand. We are to accompany Lord Dunmore to England
next week as prisoners in the ship Radnor. Both well, but very
unhappy. I love you.----Katharine._
This note had been brought to him, the day before his departure from
Fairview Hall, by one of the slaves from the Wilton place, who had in
turn received it from a stranger who had handed it to him with the
orders that it be given to Lieutenant Seymour if he were within the
neighborhood; if not, it was to be destroyed. There was no address on
the outside of the letter, which, indeed, was only a soiled and torn
bit of paper, and unsealed. Seymour had hitherto communicated this
news to no one, and was hesitating whether or no to tell Talbot, who
had that day joined the ship.
Seymour found Talbot and the captain together, when, after giving his
name to the negro boy, Joe, who waited in attendance, for Captain Jones
was one of the most punctilious of men, he was ushered into the
captain's cabin.
"Come in, Seymour," said the captain, genially, laying aside the formal
address of the quarter-deck. "Joe, a glass of wine for Mr. Seymour.
Has the watch been set?"
"Yes, sir, and Lieutenant Wallingford has the deck."
"Ah, that's well; he knows the channel like a pilot. Sit down, man."
"Thank you, captain. How do you like your first experience on a
ship-of-war, Talbot?"
"Very much, indeed," answered the young officer; "and if we shall only
succeed in capturing the transport I shall like it much better."
"Well, gentlemen," said Captain Jones, "I will give you a toast. Here
's to a successful cruise, many prizes, good chances at the enemy, and,
of course, first of all, the capture of the transport, though that will
deprive me of the pleasure of your society. I intend to bear away to
the northeast immediately we pass the Capes, and I count upon striking
the transport somewhere off Halifax. If we should succeed in capturing
her, I am of the opinion, if her cargo proves as valuable as reported,
that my best course would be to convoy her to one of our ports, or at
least so far upon her way as to insure her safe arrival. The cargo
would be too important to be lost or recaptured under any
circumstances," he continued meditatively. "Well, I think I would
better go on deck for the present. You will excuse me, Mr. Talbot, I
am sure. You will both dine with me to-night. Seymour, a word with
you," he continued, opening the door and going out, followed by his
executive officer.
CHAPTER XIII
_A Clever Stratagem_
Six days out from the Capes of Delaware Bay, and the Ranger was
cruising between Halifax and Boston, about one hundred leagues east of
Cape Sable. If there be truth in the maxim that a ship is never fit
for action until she has been a week at sea, the Ranger might be
considered as ready for any emergency now. The crew had thoroughly
learned their stations; they and the officers had become acquainted
with each other; the possibilities of the ship in different weather,
and on various points of sailing, had been ascertained. The drill at
quarters twice daily, and the regular target practice with great guns,
and the exercises with small arms, had materially developed the
offensive and defensive possibilities of the ship.
The already warm friendship between Seymour and Talbot, now thrown into
close association by the necessary confinement of a small ship, had
grown into an intimacy, and they held many discussions concerning their
absent friends in the long hours of the night watches. Talbot had
learned through common rumor before they sailed, that Colonel Wilton
would probably be sent to England with Lord Dunmore, whose retirement,
under the vigorous policy pursued by the Virginians under the
leadership of Patrick Henry, who had been elected governor, was
inevitable; and he did not doubt but that Katharine would accompany her
father. He had never told Seymour of the plans which had involved the
destinies of Katharine and himself, and something had restrained him
from mentioning either his hopes or his affection for her, though time
and absence had but intensified his passion, until it was the consuming
idea of his soul.
This reserve was matched by a similar reticence on the part of Seymour,
who had said nothing of the note he had received, and had not
communicated the news of his own successful suit to his unsuspecting
rival. Seymour had a much clearer apprehension of the situation than
Talbot, and, intrenched in Katharine's confession, could endure it
without disquiet, magnanimously saying nothing which could disturb his
less favored rival. The situation, however, was clearly an impossible
one, and that there would be a sudden break in the friendship, when
Talbot found out the true state of affairs, he did not doubt. This was
a grief to him, for he really liked the young man, and would gladly
have spared his friend any pain, if it were possible; however, since
there was only one Kate in the world, and she was his, he saw no way
out of the difficulty, and could only allow Talbot to drift along
blindly in his fool's paradise, until his eyes were opened. Both the
young men were favorites with Captain Jones, and he treated them in a
very different manner from that he usually assumed to his subordinates,
for Jones was a man to be respected and feared rather than loved.
Late in the afternoon, the ship being under all plain sail, on the port
tack, heading due west, the voice of the lookout on the mainroyal-yard
floated down to the deck in that hail which is always thrilling at sea,
and was doubly so in this instance,--
"Sail ho!"
Motioning to the officer of the deck, Jones himself replied in his
powerful voice,--
"Where away?"
"Broad off the lee-beam, sir."
"Can you make her out?"
"No, sir, not yet."
"Well, keep your eye lifting, my man, and sing out when you do. Mr.
Simpson," he said, turning to the officer of the deck, "let her go off
a couple of points."
"Ay, ay, sir. Up with the helm, quartermaster, round in the
weather-braces, rise tacks and sheets."
The speed of the ship going free was materially increased at once, and
in a few moments the lookout once more hailed the deck,--
"I can make her out now, sir."
"What is it?"
"A ship, sir, ay, and there is another one with her, and a third. I
can't tell what she is, sir. The first one looks like a large ship."
"Mr. Wallingford, take the glass and go up the crosstrees and see what
you make of them, sir," said the captain.
"Very good, sir," replied the lieutenant, springing into the main
rigging and rapidly ascending to the crosstrees, glass in hand.
"Gentlemen, we will have a nearer look at these gentry," continued the
captain, glancing back at the officers, who had all come up from below,
while the men, equally interested, were crowding on the forecastle, and
gazing eagerly in the direction of the reported sails, which were not
yet visible from the deck.
"On deck, there."
"Ay, ay, what is it?"
"I can make out five ships, and two brigs, and a schooner, and some
other sails just rising, all close hauled on the port tack. I think
there are more of them, sir, but I can't say yet. We are rapidly
drawing down on them, and shall be able to make them out in a minute.
I think it is a convoy or a fleet."
"That will do, Mr. Wallingford; lay down on deck, sir; give the glass
to the man on the royal-yard, though, before you come. Who is he?"
"It is me, sir, Jack Thompson."
"Keep a bright lookout then, Thompson, and if yon 's an enemy's fleet
or convoy, it means a glass of grog and a guinea for you when your
watch is over."
"Thankee, sir," cried the delighted seaman.
"Mr. Wallingford, could you make anything out of the size of the ships?"
"One of them I should say was a large ship, a frigate or ship of the
line possibly, the others were too far off."
"It can't be a fleet," replied Captain Jones; "there are not so many of
the enemy's ships together in these waters, if we are correctly
informed. I suspect it must be a lot of merchantmen and transports,
convoyed by two or three men of war. Now is our opportunity,
gentlemen," he continued, his eyes sparkling with delight. "They are
apparently beating in for Halifax, and probably the Mellish, our
transport, will be among them. We will pay them a visit to-night in
any event. I would n't let them pass by without a bow or two, if they
were a fleet of two deckers!"
Apparently this reckless bravado entirely suited the ship's company,
for one of the men who had heard the doughty captain's speech called
for three cheers, which were given with a will.
"Ay, that's a fine hearty crew, and full of fight. Call on all hands,
Mr. Simpson."
This was more or less a perfunctory order, since every man from the
jack-of-the-dust to the captain was already on deck.
"Mr. Seymour," said Jones to the first lieutenant, who had taken the
trumpet at the call of all hands, "we must dress for the ball, and our
best disguise for the present will be that of a merchantman. I don't
suppose that the English imagine that we have a ship afloat in these
waters, and possibly they can't see us, against this cloud bank in this
twilight, as we can see them against the setting sun; but we will be on
the safe side for the few moments of daylight left us. They may be
looking at us over there, so we will hoist the English flag at once;
and as we are nearing them a little too rapidly, better brail up the
fore and main sails, and take in the royals and the fore and mizzen
topgallantsails for the present, and slack off the running gear. Then
beat to quarters, and have the guns run in and double shotted, close
the ports, and have the arms distributed; clear the forecastle too,
except of two or three men, and bid everybody observe the strictest
quiet, especially when we get in among the convoy," he continued
rapidly.
"You can see them now from the deck, sir," said Lieutenant Simpson,
handing the glass to the captain.
"Ay, so you can, but not well. Mainroyal there! Can you make them out
any better?"
"Yes, sir. There's eighteen sail of them; one is a frigate and one
looks like a sloop of war, sir; the rest is merchantmen, some of 'em
armed."
"Very good. Have they seen us yet?"
"Don't appear to take no notice on us so far, sir."
"Come down from aloft then, and get your grog and guinea, Jack; we
won't need you up there any more; it is getting too dark to see
anything there, anyway. Beat to quarters, Mr. Seymour. Ah, there go
the lights in the convoy."
For the next few moments the decks presented a scene of wild confusion,
which gradually settled down into an orderly quiet, the various
directions of the captain were promptly carried out, and the ship was
speedily prepared for the conflict, though outwardly she had lost her
warlike appearance, and now resembled a peaceful trader.
While the Ranger had been slowly drawing nearer to the sluggish fleet
of merchantmen and their convoy, the early twilight of the late season
faded away and soon gave place to darkness; the night was cloudy, the
sky being much overcast, and there was no moon, all of which was well
for their present purpose.
The men thoroughly appreciated the hazardous nature of this advance
upon the unsuspecting fleet, protected by two heavy vessels of war,
either of which was probably much stronger than their own ship; but the
very audacity and boldness with which the affair was being carried out
thoroughly suited the daring crew.
Most of them had stripped to the waist in anticipation of the coming
conflict, for they felt confident that the fleet would not escape
without a battle; and during the next hour they clustered about the
guns, quietly whispering among themselves, and eagerly waiting the
events of the night. The nervous strain appeared to affect everybody
except the imperturbable captain, but the deep silence was unbroken
save by low-voiced commands from the first lieutenant. All sail had
been made as soon as it had become thoroughly dark, the yards properly
braced, and the guns run out again.
CHAPTER XIV
_A Surprise for the Juno_
The Ranger, a new and swift-sailing ship, and going free also, rapidly
edged down upon the slow moving convoy on the wind. The frigate, it
was noticed, was several miles ahead in the van; the other ships were
carelessly strung out in a long line, probably not suspecting the
existence of any possible enemy in those waters. The sloop of war
appeared to be among the rear ships, while the nearest vessel to the
Ranger was a large schooner, whose superior sailing qualities had
permitted her to reach several miles to windward of the square-rigged
ships; she appeared to be light in ballast also. All of the convoy
showed lights. The Ranger, on the contrary, was as dark as the night,
not even the battle lanterns being lighted. She rapidly overhauled the
schooner, and almost before her careless people were aware of it, she
was alongside.
"Schooner ahoy!" called out the captain of the ship, standing on the
rail, trumpet in hand.
"Ahoy, there!" came back from the schooner; "what ship is that?"
"His Britannic majesty's sloop of war Southampton, Captain Sir James
Yeo. I have a message from the admiral for this convoy, which we have
been expecting. Send a boat aboard."
"Ay, ay, sir. Will you heave to for us?"
"Yes, swing the main-yard there, Mr. Seymour, and heave to."
In a few moments the splash of oars was heard, and a small boat drew
out of the darkness to the starboard gangway of the Ranger. A man
stood up in the stern sheets, and seizing the man ropes thrown to him
climbed up on the deck.
"Ah, Sir James," he commenced, taking off his hat, "how do you do? How
dark you are! Why, what's all this?" he exclaimed in surprise and
terror, as he made out the strange uniforms in the dim light. He
hesitated a moment, and then stepped back hastily to the gangway,
lifting his hand.
"Seize him," cried a stern voice, "shoot him if he makes a sound."
The captain of the unlucky schooner was soon dragged, struggling and
astonished, to the break of the poop.
"Oh, Sir James, what is the meaning of this outrage, sir, on a British
ship-master? I shall report--"
"Silence, sir, this is the American Continental ship Ranger, and you
are a prisoner," replied the same voice. "Answer my questions now at
once; your life depends on it. What are these ships to leeward?"
"Sixteen merchantmen from London, to Halifax, under convoy of two
men-of-war, sir."
"And what are they?"
"The Acasta, thirty-six, and the Juno, twenty-two, sir."
"Very good; is the transport Mellish among them?"
The man made no reply.
"Answer me."
"Ye--yes, sir."
"Which is she?"
"Oh, sir, I can't tell you that, sir; she is the most valuable ship of
them all," he said incautiously.
"You have got to tell me, my man, if you ever want to see daylight
again; which is she?"
"No, sir, I can't tell you," he replied obstinately.
"Put the muzzle of your pistol to his forehead, Williams, and if he
does not answer by the time I count ten, pull the trigger. One, two,
three, four--"
"Mercy, mercy," cried the frightened skipper, as he felt the cold
barrel of the pistol pressed against his temple.
"Eight, nine--" went on the voice in the darkness, imperturbably.
"I'll tell, I'll tell."
"Ah, I thought so; which one is she?"
"The last one, sir."
"And the Juno?"
"The fourth from the rear; the frigate 's the first one, sir," he
volunteered. "Oh, don't kill me, gentlemen."
"Have you told me the truth, sirrah? Williams, keep your pistol there."
"Oh, sir, yes, so help me; oh, gentlemen, for God's sake don't murder
me. I've a wife and--"
"Peace, you fool! We won't hurt you if you 've told the truth; you
shall even be released presently and have your schooner again--we don't
want her; but if you have lied to me, you shall hang from that yard-arm
in the morning, as sure as my name is John Paul Jones."
"O Lord!" said the now thoroughly frightened man, looking up and
meeting the gaze of two eyes which gleamed in the dim light from the
deck above him, "I 've told you the truth, sir."
"Very well. Go call your boat's crew on deck. Stand by to capture
them as soon as they reach the gangway, some of you, then stow them all
below; let their boat tow astern. And when that's done, you, sir, hail
your schooner and tell her to heave to until your return. Say just
what I tell you to and nothing more--the pistol at your head is loaded
still. Watch him carefully, men, and then send him below with the
rest. Fill away again, Mr. Seymour."
The ponderous yards were swung, and the Ranger soon gathered way again
and rapidly overhauled the last of the fleet. The first trick had
worked so well that it was worth trying again. As soon as she drew
near the doomed ship, she showed lights like those of the frigate and
sloop of war. Ranging alongside the weather quarter of the transport,
the captain again hailed,--
"Ship ahoy!"
"Ahoy, what ship is that?"
Again the same deluding reply,--
"His Britannic majesty's sloop of war Southampton, Captain Sir James
Yeo. What ship is that?"
"The transport Mellish."
"Very well, you are the one we want. I have a message for you. The
Yankees are about, and the admiral has sent us to look up the convoy.
Where is the Acasta?"
"In the van, Sir James, about two leagues ahead; the corvette is about
a mile forward there, sir."
"Very good. Heave to and send a boat aboard and get your orders. Look
sharp now, I must speak the corvette and the frigate as well."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the Englishman, as his mainyard was promptly
swung.
Immediately the Ranger was hove to as well, and on her weather side,
which was that away from the transport, two well-manned boats, their
crews heavily armed, one commanded by Seymour, who had Talbot with him,
and the other by Philip Wilton, accompanied by Bentley, had been
silently lowered into the water, and were pulling around the Ranger
with muffled oars; making a large detour not only to avoid the boat of
the captain of the Mellish, but also to enable one of them to approach
the unsuspecting ship on the lee side. The night was pitch dark, and
the plan was carried out exactly as anticipated. The utterly
unsuspecting captain of the Mellish was seized as he came on deck and
nearly choked to death before he could make an outcry, then sent below
with the rest; his boat's crew were tempted on deck also by an
invitation to partake of unlimited grog, and treated in the same way,
and the two boats of the Ranger reached the Mellish undiscovered. The
watch on the deck of the transport, diminished by the absence of the
boat's crew, were overwhelmed by the rush of armed men, from both sides
of the ship, and after a few shots from two or three men on the
quarter-deck, some yelling and screaming, and a brief scuffle, in which
one man of the Mellish was killed, the ship was mastered. The hatches
were at once secured, before the watch below scarcely knew of the
occurrence. A company of soldiers, about seventy-five in number, of
the Seaforth Highlanders, found themselves prisoners ere they awakened,
the only resistance having come from the mate and two or three of their
officers, who had not yet turned in.
"Have you got her, Mr. Seymour?" hailed the Ranger.
"Yes, sir."
"What is she?"
"She 's the Mellish right enough, sir."
"Good. Anybody hurt?"
"One of the enemy killed, sir; all of ours are all right."
"What's her crew?"
"Fifteen men, they say, and seventy-five soldiers. We have the hatches
battened down, and I think with the men we have, we can manage her all
right."
"Very well, sir. I congratulate you. I am sending the second cutter
off to you with the men's dunnage and your boxes. You have your
orders. Present my compliments to General Washington, with that ship
as a Christmas present, if you bring her in. God grant you get in
safely. Good-by. Better put out that light; we will take your place
in the fleet, and see what happens."
"Good-by, sir," cried the young lieutenant; "a prosperous cruise to
you."
In a moment the boat from the Ranger was alongside, the bags and boxes
were speedily shifted, and the cutter, with the other two boats in tow,
dropped back to the Ranger, which by a shift of the helm had drawn much
nearer. Then the Mellish filled away, and presently wearing round on
her heel went off before the wind, and, all her lights having been
extinguished, faded speedily away in the darkness. The boats were
hoisted on the Ranger, she braced up on the port tack, and took the
place vacated by the Mellish. But these things had not happened
without attracting some attention.
The captain of the vessel next ahead of the Mellish had heard the
pistol shots and shouting. Luffing up into the wind to check his own
headway, he made out a second ship in the darkness alongside his next
astern. In doubt as to what was happening, but certain that something
was wrong, he acted promptly, and caused a blue light to be burned on
his forecastle; this was the agreed signal of danger, and it
immediately awakened the unsuspecting fleet into action. Several of
the ships at different intervals in the long line repeated the signal,
which was finally answered by the frigate, hull down ahead. The
corvette, a half mile away perhaps, responded immediately, and wearing
short round came to on the other tack, and headed for the last of the
line, beating to quarters the while.
A less audacious man might have thought that he had done enough in
cutting out with so little loss so valuable a transport from under the
guns of two ships of war, either of greater force than his own, and
therefore would have taken advantage of the night to effect his own
escape. But this would not have suited the daring nature of Captain
Jones, and he resolved to await the advent of the sloop of war,
trusting that the advantage of a surprise might compensate for the
great difference in the batteries of the two ships. Besides the
natural desire to fight the enemy, there was a method in the apparent
madness. If he could successfully disable the sloop before the arrival
of the frigate, he would ensure the escape of the captured Mellish, for
the sloop would be in no condition to pursue, and the frigate could not
safely leave her convoy. So with rather a mixture of ideas, he trusted
to the God of battles and the justice of his cause, and also to the
darkness and his own mother-wit and great skill in seamanship, to make
his own escape after the battle, resolutely putting out of his head the
fact that the loss of a spar or two would in all probability result in
the capture of his own ship. To sum it all up, Jones was not a man to
decline battle when there was the slightest prospect of success, and
the very audacity of the present situation enchanted him. All the
lanterns of the Ranger were again extinguished, therefore, and the men
sent quietly to their quarters, with the strictest injunctions not to
make a sound or fire a gun until ordered, under pain of death. Every
other preparation had long since been made for action, so the officers
slipped on their boarding caps, loosened their swords in their sheaths,
and looked to the priming of their pistols; then receiving their final
commands, departed quietly to their several stations,--Simpson, now
occupying the position of first lieutenant, vacated by Seymour, having
charge of the batteries, and Wallingford, on deck with the captain, in
command of the sail trimmers, who were clustered about the masts, the
sloop being still heavily manned.
"Man the starboard battery," said the captain, in a low but distinct
voice; "men, we 've got our work cut out for us to-night. No cheering
until the first shot is fired, and no firing till I give the order, and
then, all together, give it to them. Do you understand?"
A chorus of subdued "Ay, ays" indicated that the orders were heard.
"Mr. Wallingford, do you stand ready to back the maintopsail when she
is alongside, though if she attempts to pass in front of us we 'll up
helm and take her on the port side. Two of you after-guards go below
and bring up the captain of the Mellish. Lively, we shall soon have
the sloop down on us."
In a few moments the unfortunate British skipper was standing on the
poop-deck beside Captain Jones.
"Now, my man, you are the master of the Mellish, are you not?"
"I was a few moments ago," replied the man, sullenly.
"Well, you are to stand right here, and answer hails just as I tell
you; do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Williams, you and another hold him, and if he hesitates to answer, or
answers other than I tell him, blow his brains out. Now we have
nothing to do but wait. Keep her a good full at the helm there."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the veteran quartermaster, stationed at the con.
Meanwhile the Juno had come abeam of the vessel next ahead of the
Ranger, and the conversation which followed was as plainly audible in
the latter ship as had been the beating to quarters just after she wore.
"Providence ahoy there!" came from the Juno. "What is the matter?
What are you burning blue lights for?"
"Nothing is the matter with us, sir, but we heard pistol shots and
cries on the Mellish astern, and thought we saw two ships instead of
one. It's so beastly black to-night we could n't make out anything
very well."
"All right; better keep off a little, out of the way. I will run down
and see what's wrong."
The present course of the Juno would have brought her across the bows
of the Ranger, but the ships were nearing so rapidly that a collision
would have resulted, so the Juno was kept away a little, and soon ran
down on the lee bow of the Ranger. The two ships were thus placed side
by side, the Ranger on the port tack having the advantage of the
weather gauge of the Juno, which had the wind free,--an advantage the
captain of the English ship would never have yielded without an effort,
had he imagined the character of the ship opposite him. The battle
lanterns of the Juno were lighted, the ports triced up, and she
presented a brilliant picture of a gallant ship ready for action. The
Ranger, black as the night and silent as death, could barely be
discerned in dim outline from the Juno.
"Mellish ahoy."
"Ahoy, the Juno."
"What's wrong on board of you?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Pistol shots and screams were heard by the ship ahead; but who
hails--where is Captain Brent?"
"Answer him," hissed Jones, in the ear of the British captain; "tell
him there were some drunken soldiers of the Highlanders in a row.
Speak out, man," he continued threateningly.
"Why don't you answer?" came from the Juno. "I shall send a boat
aboard. Call away the first cutter," the voice continued. But the
British seaman on the Ranger's deck was made of sterner stuff than the
other. By a violent and unexpected movement he wrenched his arm free
from the grasp of one of the men, struck the other heavily in the
chest, and before any one could seize him he leaped upon the rail,
shouting loudly, "Treachery! You are betrayed. This is a Yankee
pirate." Then he sprang into the water between the two ships.
Williams raised his pistol.
"Let him go," cried Jones, "he is a brave fellow;" then lifting his
powerful voice he shouted, "This is the American Continental ship
Ranger. Stand by!"--the port shutters dropped or were pulled up with a
crash, a moment's hasty aim was taken at the brilliantly lighted ship
full abeam.--"Fire! Let them have it, men," he cried in a voice of
thunder. Instantly the black side of the Ranger gave forth a sheet of
flame, and the startling roar of the full broadside in the quiet night
was followed by shrieks and cries and the crashing of woodwork, which
told that the shots had taken effect. Three hearty British cheers rang
out, however, in reply, and the broadside was promptly returned, but
with nothing like the effect of that from the Ranger, for the first
blow counts for as much at sea as in any other contest.
The next moment the maintopsail of the Juno was gallantly laid to the
mast, that of the Ranger following suit, and the two ships, side by
side, at half pistol-shot distance, continued the dreadful combat, both
crews being encouraged and stimulated by their captains and other
officers. A battle lantern or two, which had been hastily lighted here
and there, shed a dim uncertain light over the decks of the Ranger.
The men, half naked, covered with sweat and dust and powder stains, or
splashed with blood from some more unfortunate comrade, some with heads
tied up, fighting though wounded, served the guns. Several brave
fellows were arranged on the weather side of the deck, dead, their
battles ended; one or two seriously wounded men were lying groaning by
the hatchway, waiting their turn to be carried below to the cockpit to
be committed to the rough surgery of the period, while the fleet-footed
powder boys were running to and fro from the different guns with their
charges, leaping over the wounded and dying with indifference. The
continuous roar of the artillery, for the guns were served with that
steady, rapid precision for which the American seamen soon became
famous, the crackling of musketry, from the men in the tops, with the
yells and cheers and curses and groans of the maddened men, completed a
scene which suggested a bit of hell.
"This is warm work, Wallingford," said the captain, coolly, though his
eyes were sparkling with excitement. "Do we gain any advantage?"
"I think so; their fire does not seem to be so heavy. Does it not
slacken a little, sir?"
"Ay, I think so too. I trust our sticks hold."
"I have not had any serious damage reported so far, sir."
"Well, we must end it soon, or that frigate will be down on us; in half
an hour at most, I should say. Ha! what was that?" he said, as a loud
crash from the Juno interrupted him.
"Their maintopmast 's gone by the board, hurrah!" shouted Wallingford,
looking toward the ship, after springing on the rail, from whence a
moment later he fell back dead, with a bullet in his breast.
"Poor fellow!" murmured Jones, and then called out, "Give it to them,
lads, they have lost their maintopmast." A cheer was the answer. But
the matter must be ended at once.
"Johnson," said Jones, to the young midshipman by his side, "run
forward and have the main-yard hauled; give her a good full,
quartermaster," he said to the veteran seaman at the helm, and then
watched the water over the side to see when she gathered headway
through it. "Now! Hard up with the helm! Flatten in the head sheets!
Round in the weather braces! Cease firing, and load all!"
The ship gathered way, forged ahead slowly, fell off when the helm was
put up, and in a trice was standing across the stern of the Juno, which
endeavored to meet the manoeuvre as soon as it was seen; but, owing to
the loss of the jib and maintopsail and the fouling of the gear, she
did not answer the helm rapidly enough to escape the threatening danger.
"Stand by to rake her! Ready! Fire! Stand by to board!"
The effect of this raking broadside delivered at short range was awful;
the whole stern of the Juno was beaten in, and the deadly projectiles
had free range the full length of the devoted ship, which reeled and
trembled under the terrible shock. A moment of silence followed,
broken by shrieks and groans and a few feeble cheers from some
undaunted spirits. Then the Ranger, still falling off, a rank sheer of
the helm brought her beam against the stern of the Juno, when eager
hands hove the grapnels which bound the two ships together.
"Away, boarders!"
Certain of the men left their quarters at the guns, and cutlass and
pistol in hand, led by Jones himself, swarmed over the rail and on the
poop of the Juno. Two or three men were standing there among the dead
and wounded men, half dazed by the sudden catastrophe, but they bravely
sprang forward.
"Do you surrender?" cried Jones.
"No, you damned rebel!" answered the foremost, in the uniform of an
officer, crossing swords with him gallantly; but in a moment the sword
of the impetuous American beat down his guard and was buried in his
breast. With a hollow groan, he fell dying on the deck of the ship he
had so gallantly defended, while his men, borne back by the determined
rush of the Rangers, after a feeble resistance, threw down their arms,
crying, "Quarter, quarter!"
All this time the guns of that ship had been firing, one or two of them
depressed by Simpson's orders so as to pierce the hull below the
water-line, the rest sending their heavy shot ripping and tearing
through the length of the Juno, which was unable to bring a single gun
to bear in reply.
"Do you strike?" called Jones, from the break of the poop, his men
massed behind him for a rush through the gangways, to one or two of the
officers who were stationed there.
"Yes, yes, God help us," cried a wounded officer; "what else can we do?"
"Where's your captain?"
"Dead, sir," answered one of the seamen who had been seized by the
boarders. "Him you killed when you boarded."
"Poor fellow, he was a brave man, and fought his ship well."
"Captain, the frigate is bearing down upon us!" cried one of the
Ranger's men.
"Ay, ay. Well, gentlemen, we cannot take possession, so we will have
to leave you to your consort," he said to the British officers. "Give
the captain of the Acasta the compliments of Captain John Paul Jones,
of the American Continental ship Ranger, and say that he will find me
in the British Channel. Thank him for our entertainment to-night," he
said, bowing courteously, and then--"Back to the ship, all you
Rangers.--Let that man's sword alone, sirrah! He used it well, let it
remain with him on his own ship; but first haul down and bring the
Juno's flag with us."
The men hastily scrambled over the rails to their own ship, the
grapnels were cut loose, and none too soon the ship slowly gathered way
and slipped by the stern of the Juno, whose mizzenmast fell a moment
after, and she lay rolling, a ghastly shattered hulk on the waters,
fire breaking out forward.
The frigate, coming down rapidly on the starboard tack, luffed up into
the wind, and fired a broadside at the rapidly disappearing Ranger,
which, however, did no harm, and was only answered by a musket-shot in
contempt, and then she ranged down beside her battered and shattered
consort. As soon as she reached the side of the Juno she was hove to,
and a boat was sent off at once. An officer stepped on board. He was
horrified at the scene of carnage which presented itself. The ship
aloft was a wreck, the decks were a perfect shambles, wounded and dying
men lay around in every position. The masts were gone, the ship was
full of shot-holes, the water was rushing and gurgling in through the
shot-holes below the waterline, flames were breaking out forward.
"Where is Captain Burden?" cried the officer.
"Dead," replied the wounded first lieutenant, in a hollow voice.
"Did you strike?"
"Yes."
"What was the ship with which you fought?"
"The American ship Ranger, Captain John Paul Jones. He says he will
see you in the English Channel. Oh, God, Lawless, isn't this awful?
Three-fourths of ours are dead or wounded! The cursed rebel captured
the Mellish, we ranged alongside at quarters; they got in the first
broadside; the maintopmast went, then the jib; they fell off, raked us
through the stern, boarded; Jones cut down Burden with his sword; we
could not get a gun to bear, they were pounding through us. We could
not keep the men at quarters, we struck; they took our flag too; then
you came down, and he sheered off; then the mizzenmast went. I expect
the fore will go next."
"What's his force? Was it a frigate?"
"I can answer that," said the brave master of the Mellish, who had
gained the Juno and fought well in the fight; "she's a sloop of
eighteen guns."
"Less than ours! We have twenty-two. Oh, Lawless, what a disgrace! I
can't understand it. Our men did well. And she goes free, and look at
us!"
"Ship is making water fast; we can't get at the fire forward either,
sir," reported one of the Juno's officers.
"Good God, can't we save the ship?" queried Lieutenant Lawless, of the
Acasta.
"No, it will be as much as we can do to get off the wounded, I fear."
"Back," cried Lawless, turning to the cutter in which they had come,
"to the Acasta, and tell her to send all her boats alongside; this ship
is a perfect wreck. She must sink in a few minutes. We have hardly
time to get the wounded off. Lively, bear a hand for your lives, men."
However, in spite of all that could be done by willing and able hands,
some of the helpless men were still on board when the Juno pitched
forward suddenly and then sank bow foremost into the dark waters,
carrying many of her gallant defenders into the deep with her. Among
them on the quarter-deck lay the body of the dead captain, the sword
which the magnanimity of his conqueror had left to him lying by his
side.
And this is war upon the sea!
CHAPTER XV
_Chased by a Frigate_
Three days after the sinking of the Juno, the Mellish, which had
escaped in the dark without pursuit from the fleet, after witnessing
the successful termination of the action between the two sloops of war,
was heading about northwest-by-west for Massachusetts Bay and Boston,
with single reefs in her topsails and close hauled on the starboard
tack. Seymour's orders had left him sufficient discretion as to his
destination, but Boston being the nearest harbor held by the Americans,
he had deemed it best to try to make that port rather than incur
further risk of recapture by making the longer voyage to Philadelphia.
The weather had turned cloudy and cold; there was a decided touch of
winter in the air. The men were muffled up in their pea-jackets, and
the little squad of prisoners, tramping up and down, taking exercise
and air under a strong guard, looked decidedly uncomfortable, not to
say disgusted, with the situation.
It had been a matter of some difficulty to disarm the prisoners,
especially the soldiers, and to feed and properly exercise them; but
the end had been successfully arrived at through the prudence and
ability of Seymour, who was well aided by Talbot and Wilton, and who
profited much by many valuable suggestions born of the long experience
of the old boatswain.
On this particular afternoon, about ten days before Christmas, the
young captain, now confident of carrying his prize into the harbor,
felt very much relieved and elated by his apparent command of the
situation. He knew what a godsend the ship's cargo, which he and
Talbot had ascertained to be even more valuable than had been
represented, would be to the American army. It might be said without
exaggeration, that the success of the great cause depended upon the
fortune of that one little ship under his command. Talbot had properly
classified and inventoried the cargo according to orders, and was
prepared to make immediate distribution of it upon their arrival in
port. Both of the young men were as happy as larks, and even the
thought of their captured friends did not disquiet them as it might
under less fortunate circumstances, for among the captives on the
Mellish was a Colonel Seaton of the Highlanders, whom they trusted to
be able to exchange for Colonel Wilton, and they did not doubt in that
case that Katharine would return with her father.
While indulging themselves in these rosy dreams, natural to young men
in the elation of spirit consequent upon the events of their short and
exciting cruise,--the capture and successful escape of the transport,
the apparent assurance of bringing her in, and the daring and brilliant
night-action which they had witnessed,--they had neither of them
ventured to touch upon the subject uppermost in each heart,--the love
each bore for Katharine,--and the subject still remained a sealed book
between them. The cruise was not yet over, however, and fate had in
store for them several more exciting occurrences to be faced. Seymour,
often accompanied by Talbot, and Wilton, always accompanied by Bentley,
kept watch and watch on the brief cruise of the transport. On the
afternoon of the third day, about three bells in the afternoon watch,
or half after one o'clock, Seymour, whose watch below it was, was
called from the cabin by old Bentley, who informed him that a
suspicious sail had been seen hull down to the northeast, and Wilton
had desired that his commanding officer be informed of it. Seizing a
glass and springing to his feet, he hastened on deck.
"Well, Mr. Wilton," he said to that young officer, proud of his
responsibilities, "you keep a good lookout. Where away is the sail
reported?"
"Broad off the weather bow, sir, due north of us. You can't see her
from the deck yet," replied Wilton, flushing with pride at the
compliment.
Seymour sprang into the main rigging, and rapidly ascended to the
crosstrees, glass in hand. There he speedily made out the
topgallantsails of a large ship, having the wind on the quarter
apparently, and slowly coming into view. He subjected her to a long
and careful scrutiny, during which the heads of her topsails rose,
confirming his first idea that she was a ship-of-war, and if so,
without doubt, one of the enemy. She was coming down steadily; and if
the two vessels continued on their present courses they would pass each
other within gun-shot distance in a few hours, a thing not to be
permitted under any circumstances, if it could be avoided. He
continued his inspection a moment longer, and then closing the glass,
descended to the deck with all speed by sliding down the back-stay.
"Forward, there!" he shouted. "Call the other watch, and be quick
about it! Philip, step below and ask Mr. Talbot to come on deck at
once. Bentley, that seems to be a frigate or a heavy sloop going free;
she will be down on us in a few hours if we don't change our course.
Take a look at her, man," he said, handing him the glass, "and let me
know what you think of her."
While the men were coming on deck, Bentley leaped into the mizzen
rigging and ran up the shrouds with an agility surprising in one of his
gigantic figure and advanced age. After a rapid survey he came down
swiftly. "It's an English frigate, and not a doubt of it, sir, and
rising very fast."
"I thought so. Man the weather braces! Up with the helm! Bear a hand
now, my hearties! Now, then, all together! Brace in!" He himself set
a good example to the short crew, who hastened to obey his rapid
commands, by assisting the two seamen stationed aft to brail in the
spanker, in which labor he was speedily joined by Talbot, who had come
on deck. Young Wilton and Bentley lent the same assistance forward,
and in an astonishingly brief time, considering her small crew, the
Mellish, like the stranger, was going free with the wind on her
quarter, her best point of sailing, her course now making a wide obtuse
angle with that of the approaching ship.
"Now, then, men, lay aloft, and shake the reefs out of the topsails.
Stand by to loose the fore and main topgallantsails as well."
"Why, what's wrong, Seymour?" said Talbot, in surprise. "I rather
expected we should be in Massachusetts Bay this evening, and here we
are, heading south again. Isn't that Cape Cod,--that blue haze yonder?
Why are we leaving it? What's the matter?"
"Take the glass, man; there, aft on the starboard quarter, a sail! You
should be able to see her from the deck now. Can you make her out?"
"Yes, by heaven, it's a ship, and a large ship too! What is it, think
you, Seymour?"
"An English ship, of course, a frigate; we have no ships like that in
these waters, or in our navy, either--more's the pity."
"Whew! This looks bad for us."
"Well, we 're not caught yet by a long sight, Talbot. A good many
leagues will have to be sailed before we are overhauled, and there 's
many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip, you know; that old stale maxim
is truer on the sea than any place else, and truer in a chase, too; a
thousand things may help us or hinder her. See, we are going better
now that the reefs are out and the topgallantsails set. But it's a
fearful strain on our spars. They look new--pray God they be good
ones," he continued, gazing over the side at the masses of green water
tossed aside from the bows and sweeping aft under the counter in great
swirls.
The spars and rigging of the Mellish were indeed fearfully tested, the
masts buckling and bending like a strained bow. The wind was
freshening every moment, and there was the promise of a gale in the
lowering sky of the gray afternoon. The ship felt the increased
pressure from the additional sail which had been made, and her speed
had materially increased, though she rolled and pitched frightfully,
wallowing through the water and smashing into the waves with her broad,
fat bows, and making rather heavy weather of it. In spite of all this,
however, the chase gained slowly upon them, until she was now visible
to the naked eye from the decks of the Mellish. Seymour, full of
anxiety, tried every expedient that his thorough seamanship and long
experience could dictate to accelerate the speed of his ship,--rather a
sluggish vessel at best, and now, heavily laden, slower than ever. The
stream anchors were cut away, and then one of the bowers also; all the
boats, save one, the smallest, were scuttled and cast adrift; purchases
were got on all the sheets and halliards, and the sails hauled flat as
boards, and kept well wetted down; some of the water tanks were pumped
out, to alter the trim and lighten her; the bulwarks and rails partly
cut away, and, as a final resort, the maintopmast studdingsail was set,
but the boom broke at the iron and the whole thing went adrift in a few
moments. Talbot, anxious to do something, suggested the novel
expedient of breaking out a field-piece from the fore hold and mounting
it on the quarter-deck to use as a stern-chaser. This had been done,
but the frigate was yet too far away for it to be of any service.
In spite of all these efforts, they were being overhauled slowly, but
Seymour still held on and did not despair. There was one chance of
escape. Right before them, not a half league away, lay a long shoal
known as George's Shoal, extending several leagues across the path of
the two ships; through the middle of this dangerous shoal there existed
a channel, narrow and tortuous, but still practicable for ships of a
certain size. He was familiar with its windings, as was Bentley, as
they both had examined it carefully in the previous summer with a view
to just such a contingency as now occurred. The Mellish was a large
and clumsy ship, heavily laden, and drawing much water, but he felt
confident that he could take her through the pass. At any rate the
attempt was worth making, and if he did fail, it would be better to
wreck her, he thought, than allow her to be recaptured. The English
captain either knew or did not know of the shoal and the channel. If
he knew it, he would have to make a long detour, for in no case would
the depth of water in the pass permit a heavy ship as was the pursuing
vessel to follow them; and, aided by the darkness rapidly closing down,
the Mellish would be enabled to escape.
If the English captain were a new man on the station, and unacquainted
with the existence of the shoal, as was most likely--well, then he was
apt to lose his ship and all on board of her, if he chased too far and
too hard. The problem resolved itself into this: if the Mellish could
maintain her distance from the pursuer until it was necessary to come
by the wind for a short tack, and still have sufficient space and time
left to enable her to run up to the mouth of the channel without being
sunk, or forced to strike by the batteries of the frigate, they might
escape; if not--God help them all! thought Seymour, desperately, for in
that event he resolved to run the vessel on the rocky edge of the shoal
at the pass mouth and sink her.
They were rapidly drawing down upon the shoal at the point from which
they must come by the wind, on the starboard tack. Some far-away
lights on Cape Cod had just been lighted, which enabled Seymour to get
his bearing exactly. He had talked the situation over quietly with
Bentley, and they had not yet lost hope of escaping. The men had
worked hard and faithfully, carrying out the various orders and
lightening ship, and now, having done all, some few were lying about
the deck resting, while the remainder hung over the rails gazing at
their pursuer. One of the men, the sea philosopher Thompson, of the
Ranger's crew, finally went aft to the quarter-deck to old Bentley, who
was privileged to stand there under the circumstances, and asked if he
might have a look through the glass for a moment at the frigate.
CHAPTER XVI
_'Twixt Love and Duty_
"Ay, it's as I thought," he remarked, returning the glass after a long
gaze; "that's the Radnor, curse her!"
"The Radnor, mate? Are you quite sure?"
"Bosun, does a man live in a hell like that for a year and a half, and
forget how it looks? I 'd know her among a thousand ships!"
"What's that you say, my man?" eagerly asked Seymour, stopping
suddenly, having caught some part of the conversation as he was passing
by.
"Why, that that 'ere ship is the Radnor, sir."
Talbot and his men were busy with the gun aft; no one heard but Seymour
and Bentley.
"The Radnor! How do you know it, man?"
"I served aboard her for eighteen months, sir. I knows every line of
her,--that there spliced fore shroud, the patch in the mainsail,--I put
it on myself,--besides, I know her; I don't know how, but know her I
do, every stick in her. Curse her--saving your honor's presence--I 'm
not likely to forget her. I was whipped at the grating till I was
nearly dead, just for standing up for this country, on board of her,
and me a freeborn American too! I 've got her sign manual on my back,
and her picture here, and I 'd give all the rest of my life to see her
smashed and sunk, and feel that I 'd had some hand in the doing of it.
Ay, I know her. Could a man ever forget her!" continued the seaman,
turning away white with passion, and shaking his fist in convulsive
rage at the frigate, which made a handsome picture in spite of all.
Seymour's face was as white as Thompson's was.
"The Radnor! The Radnor! Why, that's the ship Miss Wilton is on. Oh,
Bentley, what can be done now?" he said, the whole situation rising
before him. "If we lead that ship through the pass it means wreck for
her. Dacres, who commands the Radnor, is a new man on this station.
And if we don't try the pass, this ship is captured. And our country,
our cause, receives a fatal blow! Was ever a man in such a situation
before?"
Bentley looked at him with eyes full of pity. "We are approaching the
shoal now, sir, and unless we would be on it, we will have to bring the
ship by the wind at once."
This, at least, was a respite. Seymour glanced ahead, and at once gave
the necessary orders. When the course was altered it became necessary
to take in the fore and main topgallantsails, on account of the wind,
now blowing a half gale and steadily rising. The speed of the ship,
therefore, was unfortunately sensibly diminished, and she was soon
pitching and heaving on the starboard tack, much to the astonishment of
Talbot and the crew, who were ignorant of the existence of the shoal,
and the latter of whom could see no necessity for the dangerous
alteration in the course; they, however, of course said nothing, and
Talbot, whose ignorance of seamanship did not qualify him to decide
difficult questions, after a glance at Seymour's stern, pale face,
decided to ask nothing about it. This present course being at right
angles to that of their pursuer, whom neither Seymour nor Bentley
doubted to be the Radnor, would speedily bring the two ships together.
They had gained a small but precious advantage, however, as the
frigate, apparently as much surprised by the unexpected manoeuvre as
their own men, had allowed some moments to elapse before her helm was
shifted and the wind brought on the other quarter; the courses of the
two ships now intersected at an angle of perhaps seventy degrees, which
would bring them together in a short time.
The people on the Mellish could plainly hear the drums of the frigate,
now almost in range, beating to quarters. They were near enough to
count the gunports; it was indeed a heavy frigate,--a thirty-six, just
the rating of the Radnor. Talbot had made ready his field-piece, and
in a moment the heavy boom of the gun echoed over the waters. The shot
fell a little short, but was in good line. Much encouraged, the men
hastened to load the piece again, while the Mellish crept along, all
too slowly for the eager anxiety of her crew, toward the mouth of the
channel, of which most of them, however, knew nothing. The frigate,
partly because in order to bring a gun to bear on the chase it would
have to luff up into the wind and thus lose valuable distance, and also
because the rapidity with which the Mellish was being overhauled
rendered it unnecessary, had hitherto refrained from using its
batteries. The chances of escape under the present conditions were
about even, had it not been for the complication introduced by the
presence of Katharine and her father upon the frigate.
Seymour was in a painful and frightful state of indecision. What
should he do? The dilemma forced upon him was one of those which
Katharine had foreseen, and of which they had talked together. He,
apparently, must decide between his love and his country. If he held
on when he reached the mouth of the channel and passed it by, the
capture of the ship was absolutely inevitable. If he went through the
channel and enticed the English ship after him, the death of his
sweetheart was likewise apparently inevitable.
Chasing with the determination shown by the English captain, who had
his topgallantsails still set, and with the little warning he would
have of the existence of the shoal, owing to the rapid closing of the
day, the frigate would have to attempt the channel, and in that way for
that ship lay destruction.
Save Katharine-- Lose the ship. Save the ship-- Lose Katharine.
Love or Duty--which should it be? The man was attacked in the two most
powerful sources of human action. He saw on one side Katharine tossed
about by the merciless waves, white-faced with terror, and stretching
out her hands to him in piteous appeal from that angry sea in the
horror of darkness and death. And every voice which spoke to the human
heart was eloquent of her. And then on the other side there stood
those grim and frozen ranks, those gaunt, hungry, naked men. They too
stretched out hands to him. "Give us arms, give us raiment," they
seemed to say. "You had the opportunity and you threw it away for
love. What's love--to liberty?"
And every incentive which awakens the soul of honor in men appealed to
him then. Behind him stood the destinies of a great people, the fate
of a great cause; on him they trusted, upon his honor they had
depended, and before him stood one woman. He saw her again as he had
seen her before on the top of the hill on that memorable night in
Virginia. What had she said?--
"_If I stood in the pathway of liberty for one single instant, I should
despise the man who would not sweep me aside without a moment's
hesitation._"
Oh, Katharine, Katharine, he groaned in spirit, pressing his hands upon
his face in agony, while every breaking wave flung the words, "duty and
honor," into his face, and every throb of his beating heart whispered
"love--love."
CHAPTER XVII
_An Incidental Passage at Arms_
There were two entrances to the channel, lying perhaps a half mile
apart, the first the better and more practicable, and certainly, with
the frigate rapidly drawing near, the safer. They were almost abreast
of the first one now. Bentley, who had been observing him keenly, came
up to him.
"We are almost abreast the first pass, Mr. Seymour," he said
respectfully.
Seymour turned as if he had been struck. Was the decision already upon
him? He could not make it.
"We--we will try the second, Bentley."
"Sir," said the old man, hesitating, and yet persisting, "the frigate
is coming down fast; we may not be able to make the second pass."
"We will try the second, nevertheless," said the young man,
imperatively.
"But, Mr. John--"
"Silence, sir! When have you bandied words with me before?" shouted
Seymour, in a passion of temper. "Go forward where you belong."
The old man looked at him steadily: "When, sir? Why, ever since I took
you from your dead father's arms near a score of years ago. Oh, sir, I
know what you feel, but you know what you must do. It's not for me to
tell you your duty," said the old man, laying heavy emphasis upon that
talismanic word "duty," which seems to appeal more powerfully to seamen
than to any other class of men. "Love is a mighty thing, sir. I know
it, yes, even I," he went on with rude eloquence, "ever since I took
you when you were a little lad, and swore to watch over you, and care
for you, and make a man of you--Ay, and I 've done it too--and the love
of woman, they say, is stronger than the love of man, though of that I
know nothing, but honor and duty are above love, sir; and upon your
honor, and your doing your duty, our country depends. Yes, love of
woman, Mr. Seymour, but before that love of country; and now," said the
old man, mournfully, "after twenty years of--of friendship, if I may
say it, you order me forward like a dog. But that's neither here nor
there, if you only save the ship. Oh, Mr. John, in five minutes more
you must decide. See," pointing to the frigate, "how she rises! Think
of it. Think of it once more before you jeopard the safety of this
ship for any woman. Honor, sir, and duty--it's laid upon you, you must
do it--they come before everything."
Seymour looked at the old man tenderly, and then grasped him by the
hand. "You are right, old friend. Forgive my rough words. I will do
it. It kills me, but I will do it--the country first of all. O God,
pity me and help me!" he cried.
"Amen," said Bentley, his face working with grief, yet iron in its
determination and resolution.
Seymour turned on his heel and sprang aft, bringing his hand the while
up to his heart. As he did so, his fingers instinctively went to the
pocket of his waistcoat and sought the letter he carried there.
He took it out half mechanically and glanced at the familiar writing
once more, when a sudden gust of wind snatched it out of his hand and
blew it to the feet of Talbot.
"My letter!" cried Seymour, impulsively.
The soldier courteously stooped and picked it up and glanced down at
the open scrap mechanically, as he extended his hand toward Seymour;
then the next moment he cried,--
"Why, it's from Katharine!"
One unconscious inspection sufficed to put him in possession of the
contents. "Where did you get this note, sir?" he exclaimed, his face
flushing with jealousy and sudden suspicion; "it is mine, I am the one
she loves. How came it in your possession?" he continued, in rising
heat.
Seymour, already unstrung by the fearful strain he had gone through and
the frightful decision he would have to make later on, nay, had made
after Bentley's words, was in no mood to be catechized.
"I am not in the habit of answering such personal questions, sir. And
I recognize no right in you to so question me."
"Right, sir! I find a letter in your possession with words of love in
it, from my betrothed, a note plainly meant for me, and which has been
withheld. How comes it so?"
"And I repeat, sir, I have nothing to say except to demand the return
of my letter instantly; it is mine, and I will have it."
"Do you not know, Mr. Seymour, that we have been pledged to each other
since childhood, that we have been lovers, she is to be my wife? I
love her and she loves me; explain this letter then."
"It is false, Mr. Talbot; she has pledged herself to me,--yes, sir, to
me. I care nothing for your childish love-affairs. She is mine, if I
may believe her words, as is the letter which you have basely read.
You will return it to me at once, or I shall have it taken from you by
force."
"I give you the lie, sir, here and now," shrieked Talbot, laying his
hand upon his sword. "It is not true, she is mine; as for the note--I
keep it!"
Seymour controlled himself by a violent effort, and looked around for
some of his men. Wilton and Bentley had come aft in great anxiety, and
the whole crew were looking eagerly at them, attracted by the aroused
voices and the passionate attitude of the two men. For a moment the
chase was forgotten.
"Oh, Hilary," said Philip, addressing his friend.
"Hush, Philip, this man insults your sister. I am defending her honor."
The lad hesitated a moment; discipline was strong in his young soul.
"That is my duty--Mr. Seymour," he said.
Seymour turned swiftly upon him. "What are you doing here, Mr. Wilton?
All hands are called, are they not? Your station is on the forecastle,
then, I believe," he said with deadly calm. "Oblige me by going
forward at once, sir."
"Go, Philip," cried Talbot; "I can take care of this man."
"Aft here, two or three of you," continued Seymour, his usually even
voice trembling a little. "Seize Lieutenant Talbot. Arrest him. Take
his sword from him, and hand me the letter he has in his hand, and then
confine him in his cabin."
Two or three of the seamen came running aft. Talbot whipped out his
sword.
"The first man that touches me shall have this through his heart," he
said fiercely. But the seamen would have made short work of him, if it
had not been for the restraining hand of Bentley.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" he said.
"Out of the way, Bentley. You have changed my plans once. I will not
be balked again. I am the captain of this ship, and I intend to be
obeyed."
"'T is well that Mr. Seymour is on his ship and surrounded by his
bullies. He dare not meet me man to man, sword to sword. Would we
were on shore! You coward!" screamed Talbot, advancing toward him,
"shall I strike you?"
"You will have it then, sir," said Seymour, at last giving way. "No
man so speaks to me and lives. Back, men!" and white with passion and
rage he drew his own sword and sprang forward. No less resolutely did
Talbot meet him. Their blades crossed and rang against each other.
Bentley wrung his hands in dreadful indecision, not knowing what to do;
he dared not lay hands upon his superior officer, yet this combat must
cease. But the fierce sword-play, both men being masters of the
weapon, as was the habit of gentlemen of that day, was suddenly
interrupted.
CHAPTER XVIII
_Duty Wins the Game_
A booming roar came down upon them from the frigate, which had fired a
broadside, which was followed presently by the whistling of shot over
their heads. Great rents were seen in the canvas, pieces of running
gear fell to the deck, there was a crashing, rending sound, and a part
of the rail, left standing abaft the mizzen shrouds, smashed into
splinters and drove inboard under the impact of a heavy shot.
One splinter struck the man at the helm in the side; he fell with a
shriek, and lay white and still by the side of the wheel, which, no
longer restrained by his hand, spun round madly. Another splinter hit
the sword of Talbot, breaking the blade and sweeping it from his hands,
and the unlucky scrap of paper was blown into the sea. The spanker
sheet was cut in two, and the boom swept out to windward, knocking one
of the men overboard. There was neither time nor opportunity to pick
him up, and he went to his death unheeded.
Seymour dropped his sword, every instinct of a sailor aroused, and
sprang to the horse-block. The ship, left to itself, fell off rapidly
before the wind. Bentley jumped to seize the helm.
"Flow the head sheets there!" cried the lieutenant; "lively! Aft here
and haul in the spanker! Brail up the foresail! Down, hard down with
the helm!"
There was another broadside from the heavy guns of the frigate. Talbot
replied with his stern-chaser, and a cloud of splinters showed that the
shot took effect, whereat the men at the gun cheered and loaded, and
then crash went the mizzen topgallant mast above their heads!
"Lively, men!" shouted Seymour, "we must get on the wind again or we
are lost."
"Breakers on the starboard bow!" shrieked the lookout on the forecastle
suddenly. "Breakers on the port bow!" His voice ran aft in a shrill
scream, fraught with terror, "Breakers ahead!"
"Down, hard down with the helm, Bentley," said Seymour, himself
springing over to assist the old man at the wheel.
But Bentley raised his hand and kept the wheel steady. "Too late, sir,
for that," he cried, "we are in the pass. God help us now, sir. Mr.
Seymour, look to the ship, sir, look to the ship!"
The young officer sprang back on the horse-block, his soul filled with
horror. So fate had decided for him at last, and duty, not love, had
won the mighty game. A third broadside passed harmlessly over the
ship, doing little damage, the rough weather making aiming uncertain.
Again the field-piece replied. Seymour never turned his head in the
direction of the frigate. He could not look upon the catastrophe;
besides, the exigency of the situation demanded that he give his whole
mind to conning the ship through the narrow pass. Bentley himself,
assisted by a young sailor, kept the helm; the oldest seamen had charge
of the braces. The wreck of the mizzen topgallant mast was allowed to
hang for the present.
The white water dashed about the ship in sheets of foam; they were well
in the breakers now, and the most ignorant eye could see the danger.
One false movement meant disaster for the ship for whose safety Seymour
had sacrificed so much. He did not make it. To his disordered fancy
Katharine's white face looked up at him from every breaking wave. He
steeled his heart and gave his orders with as much ease and precision
as if it had been a practice cruise. To the day of his death he could
not account for his ability to do so. He made a splendid figure,
standing on the horse-block, his hair flowing out in the wind, his face
deadly pale; calm, cool, steady; his voice clear and even, but heard in
every part of the ship. The heart of the old sailor at the helm
yearned toward him, and the seamen looked at him as if he had been a
demigod. He never once looked back, but from the cries of the men he
could follow every motion of the frigate behind him. The frigate, the
unsuspicious frigate, had followed the course of the transport exactly,
and was coming down to the deadly rocks like a hurricane.
Talbot, his quarrel forgotten for the moment, ceased firing, and stood,
with all of the men who could be spared from their stations, looking
aft at the tremendous drama being played.
"The frigate! Look at the frigate! She 's going to strike, sir!"
cried one of the seamen, excitedly,--old Thompson, who had sailed upon
her. "See, they see the breakers. Now there go the head yards. It
won't do. It's too late. My God, she strikes, she strikes! I 'll
have one more shot at her before she goes," he shrieked, taking hasty
aim over the loaded field-piece and touching the priming. "Ay, and a
hit too. Hurrah! hurrah! To h--l with ye, where you belong, ye--"
"Silence aft!" shouted Seymour, in a voice of thunder. "Keep fast that
gun; and another cheer like that, and I put you in irons, Thompson."
The water in the front of the Mellish suddenly became darker, the
breakers disappeared, the ship was in deep water again; she had the
open sea before her, and was through the channel.
"We are through the pass, sir," said Bentley.
"I know it," answered Seymour, at last. "I suppose there is no use
beating back around the shoal, Bentley?" he said tentatively.
"No, sir, no use; and besides in this wind we could not do it; and,
sir, you know nothing will live in such a sea. Look at the Englishman
now, sir."
The captain turned at last. The frigate was a hopeless wreck. All
three of her masts had gone by the board; she had run full on the rocky
ledge of the shoal at the mouth of the channel. The wind had risen
until it blew a heavy gale; no boat, no human being, could live in such
a sea. The waters rushed over her at every sweep, and she was fast
breaking up before them. Night had fallen, and darkness at last
enshrouded her as she faded out of view. A drop of snow fell lightly
upon the cold cheek of the young sailor, and the men gazed into the
night in silence, appalled by the awful catastrophe. Bentley,
understanding it all, laid his hand lightly on Seymour's arm, saying
softly,--
"Better clear the wreck and get the mizzen topsail and the fore and
main sail in, sir, and reef the fore and main topsails; the spars are
buckling fearfully. She can't stand much more."
"Oh, Bentley," he said with a sob, and then, mastering himself, he gave
the necessary orders to clear away the wreck and take in the other
sails, and close reef the topsails, in order to put the ship in proper
trim for the rising storm; after which, the wind now permitting, the
ship was headed for Philadelphia.
As Seymour turned to go below, he came face to face with Talbot. The
two men stood gazing at each other in silence.
"We still have an account to settle, Mr. Talbot," he said sternly.
"My God," said Talbot, hesitatingly, "was n't it awful? How small,
Seymour, are our quarrels in the face of that!" pointing out into the
darkness,--"such a tremendous catastrophe as that is."
Seymour looked at him curiously; the man had not yet fathomed the depth
of the catastrophe to him, evidently.
"As for our quarrel," he continued in a manly, generous way,
"I--perhaps I was wrong, Mr. Seymour. I know I was, but I have loved
her all my life. I am sorry I spoke so, and I beg your pardon;
but--won't you tell me about the note now?"
A great pity for the young man filled Seymour's heart in spite of his
own sorrow. "I loved her too," he said quietly. "The note was sent to
me from Gwynn's Island, where they were confined. I had offered myself
to her the night of the raid,--just before it, in fact,--and she
accepted me. The note was mine. Where is it?"
"Oh!" said Talbot, softly, lifting his hand to his throat, "and I loved
her too, and she is yours. Forgive me, Seymour, you won her honorably.
I was too confident,--a fool. The note is gone into the sea. We
cannot quarrel about it now."
"There can be no quarrel between us now, Talbot. She is mine no more
than she is yours. She--she--" He paused, choking. "She--"
"Oh, what is it? Speak, man," cried Talbot, in sudden fear which he
could not explain. Philip Wilton had drawn near and was listening
eagerly.
"That ship there--the Radnor, you know--is lost, and all on board of
her must have perished long since."
"Yes, yes, it's awful; but what of that? what of Katharine?"
"Don't you remember the note? Colonel Wilton and she were on the
Radnor."
The strain of the last hour had undermined the nervous strength of the
young soldier. He looked at Seymour, half dazed.
"It can't be," he murmured. "Why did you do it? How could you?" The
world turned black before him. He reeled as if from a blow, and would
have fallen if Seymour had not caught him. Philip strained his gaze
out over the dark water.
"Oh, my father, my father!" he cried. "Mr. Seymour, is there no hope,
no chance?"
"None whatever, my boy; they are gone."
"Oh, Katharine, Katharine! Why did you do it, Seymour?" said Talbot,
again.
Seymour turned away in silence. He could not reply; now that it was
done, he had no reason.
The dim light from the binnacle lantern fell on the face of Bentley;
tears were standing in the old man's eyes as he looked at them, and he
said slowly, as if in response to Talbot's question,--
"For love of country, gentlemen."
And this, again, is war upon the sea!
BOOK III
THE LION AT BAY